Pathway to Japanese Literature

Nakoso Hearing that the Tohoku Line, suspended due to days of storms, had resumed service, we boarded the coastal train from Ueno on the morning of September 7, Meiji 43 (1910). After three o'clock, we got off at Sekimoto Station and went by carriage to Hirakata. Hirakata was a renowned fishing ground. In the southern part of the bay, spanning from the town across the facing Dejima, stood a remarkable pier—its rows of pilings arrayed like the crawling legs of a mantis shrimp. The fishing ground after the rain—nothing but fishy, fishy. After unloading our luggage at Seikaitei, we borrowed the inn’s geta-gasa umbrellas and set out by carriage to visit the Nakoso Seki-no-Ato ruins.

We entered the tunnel at the edge of town from Hitachi and emerged in Iwaki. We proceeded a short way along the desolate coastal road where waves large and small crashed thunderously ashore, then disembarked from our carriage at the lone tea shop that stood there. Nakoso stone monument rubbings, fossils of pine and shells, picture postcards, and such were being sold. Having the carriage driver carry Tsuruko on his back, we carefully watched our slipping footsteps as we crossed the railway tracks and ascended along the rice field’s edge toward the checkpoint ruins. The path takes its name from the song “The Path Also Scatters Narrowly,” and Yoshino cherry trees had been planted here in abundance. They were all saplings. The path entered the mountains, and we ascended through autumn’s full splendor across the slopes—bush clover, patrinia flowers, burnet, bellflower, cogon grass—all at their peak. Tsuruko, holding a deep-purple bellflower branch the carriage driver had broken off for her, was carried onward.

After ascending about a kilometer from the tea shop on the coastal road, we arrived at the site of the Seki. At the saddle-shaped depression atop a narrow ridge resembling a horse’s spine—where ancient pines stood named Yumikake-no-Matsu and Kurakake-no-Matsu, associated with Hachiman Tarō—fourteen or fifteen towering red and black pines swayed under Pacific winds, their emerald-green treetops whistling with a rustling chorus. They were not five or six hundred years old. Outside the pines, there was nothing particularly old. The stone monument was from the Kaei era. A tea house structure had been built there, but now that summer had passed, not a soul remained—nor was there any tea server in attendance. Cupping the clear water of Yumihazu Spring, I stood beneath the Yumikake Pine and gazed out. To the west, white clouds and mist swirled and streamed through the layered mountains of Iwaki. To the east lay the Pacific Ocean, buoyed by the dull light of the setting sun filtering through the clouds, lying utterly still. The faint rhythm of a bonito boat's oars could be heard. Did the ancient coastal road to Oshu truly pass over this mountain? Did Hachiman Tarō too pass through this place on horseback amidst a blizzard of flowers? The songs remain, but there is no checkpoint site worthy of the name—only pine winds rustling in solemn recitation. A thousand years of human existence slips by effortlessly. While we stood there in a daze, two young farmers came down from the pass chasing a horse laden with cut grass on its back, passed before us, and ascended the opposite peak.

At dusk, we returned to the inn at Hirakata. The bathwater was lukewarm, the toilet filthy. Though the fish were fresh, the cooking was poor and fishy; trying to drink water meant enduring the stench of the lagoon. Moreover, swarms of mosquitoes gathered in black clouds. We hastily retreated into the mosquito net, but when rain began falling at midnight and leaked onto our heads, we hurriedly moved our bedding—a bleak first night of travel.

Asamushi

From September 9th to 12th, we stayed at Asamushi Onsen in Oshu.

Behind us passed the Aomori-bound train. Under the pillow, Mutsu Bay’s emerald-green tide lapped and lapped. To the west, signs of human habitation in Aomori were discernible, while behind it, Mount Iwaki—the Tsugaru Fuji—stood small against the horizon. Visitors accompanied by geisha from Aomori sang: "Even if you spend a night together, Chima remains Chima."

Five-year-old Tsuruko, seeing seagulls for the first time, exclaimed: “Mom, white crows are flying!” In the shared mood of travelers’ lodgings, we played a pebble game with stones gathered from the shore—one child and two adults. When I was ten years old one summer, journeying by ship with my parents to visit my grandfather near the Satsuma border, foul winds had delayed us for ten full days around Amakusa Island despite the sea route spanning merely twenty-five *ri*. Having exhausted all stories to pass the interminable days, my father nearing sixty, my mother nearing fifty, and ten-year-old me had collected pebbles to play this same game. Now, counting stones with clumsy hands today, I suddenly remembered that time.

Scallop shells lay piled like mountains along the coast. Among what we ate in Asamushi, the tempura of scallop adductor muscles proved delicious. Purple roses bloomed profusely across every stretch of shoreline, their fragrance carried on salt-laden breezes.

Wild excrement lay scattered beyond the beach where roses bloomed.

Lake Ōnuma

(1)

The Umegakamaru—a newly built beautiful ship that had plowed through the Tsugaru Strait in four hours to carry us from Aomori to Hakodate—was indeed splendid, but my wife, who was prone to seasickness, had ended up succumbing to nausea. Even after resting one night at the Park Inn in Hakodate Port, she still complained of a headache. We were to go immediately to Lake Ōnuma by the afternoon train.

Hakodate Station was an extremely rudimentary station. In the waiting room, a crimson-faced and thoroughly drunk monk in a brocade kasaya had cornered a long-bearded missionary who appeared to be French and was pestering him with all manner of questions. The missionary was laughing while humoring him in a noncommittal manner.

The Sapporo-bound train left behind Hakodate’s bustle and gradually ascended through Kikyo and Nanae. As though peeling away layers of skin, my head grew lighter. Hakodate—shaped like a tomoe with Mount Wagyu at its heart—spread out below as though a bird’s-eye map had been unfurled.

"How striking to the eye—the azure sea and autumn of the north!" When I looked from the left window beyond the vivid blue expanse of autumn waters in the Tsugaru Strait, the Tsugaru region floated distantly on the horizon. When we reached Hongō, that drunken monk was seen disembarking—wearing his Fuji-shaped black hat and clutching a small green felt bag—staggering out through the ticket gate.

"Esashi—fifteen ri," was written on the station's guide sign. A little over an hour after departing Hakodate, the train finished ascending the mountains, passed Ōnuma Station, and arrived at Lake Ōnuma Park. It was a station established merely in form for tourists. We disembarked there. Two inn guides were waiting. We were guided aboard a small boat bearing Maple Leaf Inn's flag at its stern. The inn guides bowed and departed; the boatman started rowing with a creak of oars.

When we left the inlet where golden algae flowers bloomed, there lay the vast expanse of the lake surface—and suddenly before our eyes sprang Mount Komagatake, its crimson-bald peak long dormant. From the eastern shoulder rose faint wisps of smoke. When I came in the summer of Meiji 36 (1903), the railway had only been extended as far as Mori. At Lake Ōnuma Park too, two or three simple eateries stood along the water's edge. The eruption of Mount Komagatake occurred afterward. Yet even as trains reached Kushiro and Mount Komagatake erupted, Lake Ōnuma itself remained unchanged—a clear and lonely vista as of old. The date was September 14th, yet the Japanese maple trees around the marsh were already beginning to tinge with color. Here and there, mountain grape leaves entwined around oak and white birch trees burned like fire. The air was perfectly clear, the water like a mirror. Toward Fūfujima, a single sailboat was sailing. As our boat moved quietly with the sound of oars, ducks took flight, plovers took flight. Before long, the boat entered the First Inlet and arrived beneath the Maple Leaf Inn. A maid came out to greet us. We climbed a slope densely planted with young Japanese maple trees and were guided to a back room facing the water.

I knew nothing of the capital's Maple Leaf Inn, but this Maple Leaf Inn faced Lake Ōnuma, looked out upon Mount Komagatake, and—true to its name—stood surrounded by countless maple trees, a refined establishment indeed. With summer's season now passed, the inn lay hushed in tranquility. After bathing in mineral springs heated by firewood, we dined beneath an antiquated lamp on dishes of marsh carp and crucian carp served by a quiet maid, then sank into silent slumber atop that mountain by the water's edge where not a single sound stirred.

Thunder growled through the dead of night. Lightning glared through storm shutter cracks. Then came rain's swift whisper. When I rose and slid one shutter open, the moon had emerged, stars swimming in marshwater like fireflies.

(2)

By dawn the rain had begun pattering down again, but ceased once we finished breakfast. We set out fishing in a small boat. When we reached the edge of the iron bridge where trains crossed the swamp, rain came again with a sudden downpour. Before we could take shelter beneath the iron bridge, the shower had already passed. This area ran somewhat deep even within the marsh. As Lake Konuma's waters flowed into Lake Ōnuma, the current moved like a river. However much we fished, our target crucian carp refused to bite; we only caught small goby-like fish called gotaru. Mooring the boat at a waterweed-covered bank, we wandered through Japanese maples' pale autumn foliage. A natural hillock with neatly cleared undergrowth; sandy earth pleasant underfoot; though called a park, its lack of artificiality proved welcome. At a clear vantage of Mount Komagatake sat an eighteen- or nineteen-year-old youth sketching watercolors on a tripod. Clouds drifted over the volcano while lake waters and forests flickered between shadow and light—a captivating sight yet challenging to capture. As time advanced, we abandoned fishing and boarded the boat again to tour islands. Lake Ōnuma spanned eight ri around; combined with Lake Konuma, thirteen ri. They say over 140 islands once dotted these waters. Neither Lake Chūzenji's melancholy seclusion nor Lake Kasumigaura's serene expanse—Lake Ōnuma was essentially a freshwater Matsushima with oaks and birches replacing pines. Numajiri formed a waterfall. The marsh yielded no carp, crucian carp or loach. There stood Ōyamajima where they'd erected a statue this year, and Tōgōjima. There was also an island bearing several old graves of samurai said to have ruled this area. In summer it must have made fine grounds for play. Now it stood lonely.

Even so, we could see the shadows of small boats rowed by students and one or two pleasure boats of young couples. We brought the boat to the only available shore and returned to the inn after plucking particularly beautiful mountain grape leaves. In the afternoon, we wrote picture postcards and went from the inn’s front gate to mail them at the station via the land route. We stepped into the soft sandy soil in our wooden clogs and crossed the makeshift bridge over the inlet where reeds and various water plants grew thickly. From the slightly tinged treetops of birches, oaks, Japanese maples, and others, the reddish peak of Mount Komagatake with its pointed summit occasionally revealed itself. It was a lonely scene. The essence of Hokkaido seeped into my entire being.

In the evening, at the summit of the peninsula jutting into the marsh from the inn’s garden, my wife sat on a rock and began sketching Mount Komagatake as a memento. I looked through the notebook with Tsuruko and picked wildflowers in the nearby woods. The autumn sunset fell in the blink of an eye, and as we watched, the mountain shadows and water’s light transformed before our eyes. When the first peak of Mount Komagatake—still retaining sunset’s ochre afterglow—faded to ash-gray, even the small island before it shifted from purple to navy blue, bringing day’s end to Lake Ōnuma. My wife still moved her sketching brush across the paper. A sky gleamed dusky blue. Water shone white. Now and then fish leaped with plopping sounds. In the waterside woods, roosting birds startled by something flew out with rustling wings. Midges or mosquitoes hummed faintly through the air.

“In the end, I couldn’t do it.” With a snap, my wife closed the paintbox and stood up. As I crouched to carry Tsuruko on my back, my fingertips reaching behind me turned cold. The dew had already settled.

To Sapporo

September 16.

We left Lake Ōnuma. We circumnavigated halfway around Mount Komagatake, descended into the forest, and gazed ceaselessly at Funka Bay’s calm waters from the train window. A small Muroran-bound steamship rocked on the waves. The train, with Mount Komagatake at its back, ran straight along Funka Bay. As we neared Oshamambe, across the bay there stood a mountain with pewter-colored cloud-like masses clustered in patches. "That's Mount Usu," the gentleman in our compartment informed us. Leaving the bay, we took to mountain roads and stopped at Kurokoma-nai to eat buckwheat noodles. The buckwheat noodles were excellent in flavor.

At Rankoshi Station, we were finally able to behold Ezo Fuji—the very Ezo Fuji we had so intently kept in mind. Its form was noble and symmetrical; trees cloaked it all the way to the summit; its lush dark green hue seemed to cascade down the slopes. I suddenly wanted to climb up and see it. In the train car, I met Mr.O, an acquaintance returning to Sapporo Agricultural College. He had spent his summer vacation traveling around Korea and was now on his way back. Arriving in Yoichi, we caught a glimpse of the Japan Sea. Yoichi is Hokkaido's renowned apple-producing region. Bathed in the setting sun, the apple orchards displayed colors like those of blossoms. Because they were so beautiful, I bought two net bags of apples that the seller had brought.

Mr.O got off at Otaru, and we arrived in Sapporo at eight o'clock and stayed at Yamagataya.

Mid-Autumn Festival

September 18.

In the morning, we departed Sapporo for Asahikawa. The Ishikari Plain—its rice fields were already turning yellow. When I saw them still harvesting wheat in mid-September amidst this, I returned to Hokkaido’s essence.

At ten o'clock, the train emerged from the tunnel and stopped at a high cliff-top station overlooking the river. It was Kamuikotan Gorge. Suddenly deciding, I got off the train in haste with all the hand luggage.

Exiting the station under renovation—littered with crushed stones—we hired someone at a teahouse to carry Tsuruko and our luggage, then descended the steep cliff toward the river. The dark green Ishikari River swelled and surged as it flowed. From both banks stretched a precarious makeshift bridge suspended by iron wires. At the bridge entrance stood a signpost. If one were to read the text, it stated: "No more than five persons may cross simultaneously."

When I timidly stepped onto the bridge planks, my soles sank softly into them, and with each footfall, the structure swayed in all directions—left and right, front and back, up and down. This must have been exactly how it felt to cross those wisteria vine bridges in Hida's mountains or Shikoku's Iya Valley. Though a token iron railing existed, I couldn't bring myself to grip it for a leisurely crossing. Keeping my eyes averted from the torrent below, I traversed it in one held breath. The bridge measured twenty-four ken—some forty-three meters. As we stood catching our breath after crossing, a young woman bearing a charcoal sack came down from the mountain; with a sidelong glance at our lingering group, she soared across that suspension bridge as if winged.

We followed the mountain path upstream along the river for four or five chō more and came to a shabby wooden-shingled house emitting white smoke from a slender chimney. It was Kamuikotan Gorge’s mineral spring inn. For the time being, we were led to a room on the rear second floor with unbordered tatami mats. Before long—after the Asahikawa guests who had been playing Go departed—we moved to the front second floor. We bathed in the sulfur-smelling mineral spring and relaxed upstairs. Three straw-hatted male students and two bob-haired female students came to visit the neighboring room but soon left on the next train. The Ishikari River’s sound swished and echoed. At the mountainside station across the river, they were splitting stones with loud hammering blows. The clamor reverberated, and occasionally a steam train would pass through the opposing mountain.

It was lonely.

When I ordered river fish for lunch, they served us canned bamboo shoots with egg and such, with the Ishikari River before us.

After lunch, we set out to see Kamuikotan Gorge. A little upstream was said to lie this area's famous spot called the Husband-and-Wife Rocks. We did not go that way, instead heading toward the suspension bridge we had crossed earlier. Upstream of the bridge, five or six large oak trees leaned over the river's surface. In their shadow stood a small hut where three woodcutters were sawing lumber for the station renovation work. Downstream of the bridge, a rugged promontory of bluish stone jutted diagonally from the bridge's edge toward the river for fifteen or sixteen ken. I alone stepped onto the sharp rocky point, parted the thorny bushes, and went to the promontory's tip. Between the rocks lay pools of water here and there, with vines bearing autumn-red leaves clinging to the stone. I stood at the edge and gazed out. Across the river rose mixed woodland mountains—sheer cliffs perhaps three to four hundred shaku high—towering from the water's edge like an upright folding screen. A small clearing had been cut into their midslope where the station now clung. Mast-like pillars stood flush against the cliff at water's edge, supporting the station that perched precariously on one side. Tunnels pierced both ends of the station. The train crawled from a tunnel like a centipede, seemed to pause briefly at this station, then crawled out again in procession—this time disappearing into the dark tunnel mouth visible on the opposite side. The mixed woodland mountains across showed autumn's early stage with no remarkable colors yet. My eyes finally fell to the river. The Ishikari River that had churned with white rapids upstream now flowed silently beneath that suspension bridge here, its deep indigo waters swirling with small whirlpools. Part pooled into a deep eddy blocked by a rock jutting from the bridge's edge, while the rest pushed onward—brushing against my promontory—until colliding with a bluish-black cliff downstream. There all its waters bent leftward as if twisted by force before surging onward in mighty flow. During last year's flood, they said the Ishikari River had overflowed the cliff-top road and reached the mineral spring inn. I could imagine that dreadful time when muddy waters two jō deep or more had roared through this narrow gorge. Though its force was lesser now, staring at these waters still inspired awe.

The water depth under the bridge normally exceeded twenty fathoms. They said that in the past, sea sharks measuring two ken in length had come up this far. The name Kamuikotan, offered up by the Ainu—children of nature—seemed truly fitting.

After dinner, when the lamp was lit and the door closed, it felt as though we had fallen into the deepest depths of the earth—the sound of the river grew ever louder in our ears, lonely. From the inn they gave us a bowl of bush clover mochi. Tonight was the fifteenth night of the Mid-Autumn Festival. That we should spend Mid-Autumn at Kamuikotan in Hokkaido would surely become one of our memories for days to come. When I cracked open the storm shutters slightly, I found the moon unfortunately shrouded by clouds, while through the hazy valley bottom only the Ishikari River kept rustling and swishing.

Nayoro

September 19.

In the morning, we boarded from Kamuikotan Station. The train car was packed with brocade kesa robes, purple vestments, and Nichiren sect followers bound for Asahikawa. We transferred trains at Asahikawa and headed toward Nayoro. From Asahikawa onward, it was a newly opened route. Passing Nagayama, Pippu, and Ranru, the scenery gradually grew more desolate. In the train car, Passengers A and B were debating about something that was neither shiso nor hemp—cut and dried in the fields—when Passenger C explained it was mint. Before long, we entered Teshio. Around Wakkan, Kenbuchi, and Shibetsu—the vast grasslands that might be taken for pastures lay entirely frost-withered, while six-shaku-tall giant knotweed stood here and there, their yellow leaves beautifully aglow. This was what was known as peatland. All the passengers in the train car clicked their tongues at what a waste it was.

I recited aloud: "The peatland deemed unfit for cultivation—how fitting its autumn beauty crowned with giant knotweed."

In Shibetsu, a wooden-shingle-roofed theater bearing signs such as "Kyōrakuza" could be seen.

Past three in the afternoon found us at Nayoro—the present-day terminal station. We deposited our hand luggage at Maruishi Ryokan, drank a bowl of tea, and promptly set out on our customary tour of inspection.

In the Teshio River basin—resembling a shrunken version of the Asahikawa Plain—lay Shinkai Town where a handful of houses had been cast down. From before the station, the main street bent at a right angle, lined with hundreds of wooden-shingled roofs. Most numerous were haberdasheries, alongside a rather large Shinshū temple, a Tenrikyō church, and a modest Christian church visible too. We bought a makuwappuri melon found at a storefront and went to see the Teshio River—a sizable waterway that though not seeming deep, filled its entire width with brown water rushing northward. There was an iron-cabled ferry. We too crossed over and walked about briefly. The only abundance was horseflies. Sitting on a fallen tree beneath a seven-leaf plant shading the path, we peeled the makuwappuri melon. That it lacked sweetness remained an undeniable truth of the north. The sun had already begun setting, bringing a faint chill as autumn evening's loneliness closed in from all directions upon the sparsely populated Shinkai Town. We crossed the river twice and promptly returned to the inn. Through the town's center came a man on horseback returning from the fields, urging his mount onward. The sound of hooves resounded throughout Nayoro.

The innkeeper was from Sanuki, and the maid who served dinner was from Aichi. In the adjacent room, the man returning to the Kitami farm—who had earlier requested a horse—was playing Go with a guest. A massage therapist’s flute drifted through the main street.

Shunkōdai

In the summer of Meiji 36 (1903), I made a brief courier-like journey to Asahikawa with an overnight stay. At that time, Asahikawa was a town more desolate than present-day Nayoro. Through driving rain we went by carriage to Chikabumi, visited an Ainu elder's home to collect souvenir tales, and returned having purchased an itaya makiri knife. Now gazing from the carriage window, I tried to evoke those desolate memories of old—yet seeking traces of seven-years-prior Asahikawa within this Meiji 43 version proved futile.

We left the city area, crossed the Ishikari River, viewed the Chikabumi Ainu village from afar, passed by the Seventh Division’s drill ground, alighted from our vehicle, and ascended Shunkōdai. Shunkōdai was Asahikawa’s Hiro no Dai, save for the Edogawa River. Viewing the Kamikawa Plain at a glance revealed it coiled like a chain of fortresses north of Asahikawa. The hilltop stretched with white sand glittering like powdered crystal; between large oak trees whose green leaf edges were beginning to tinge with birch hues wound several roads. Immediately below us lay the Seventh Division. Massive dark wooden structures and elongated buildings stood where foot-long horses ran about, two-inch soldiers marched, red flags fluttered, and trumpets blared. During the triumphal return from the Russo-Japanese War, when a grand division memorial ceremony had been held on this hilltop—amidst plays, sumo matches, and crowds so dense they seemed to burst—Lieutenant Ryōhei Shinohara of Yadorigi stood among the spectators here at Shunkōdai, clutching to his breast a heartache like spitting blood after receiving a letter of severance from his lover’s father the previous night.

I surveyed the area. On the hilltop, aside from us, there were no human figures, and the autumn wind rustled and swished through the oak leaves.

Shunkōdai - where a youth knew gut-wrenching sorrow, As I stand here remembering, the autumn wind blows. We descended Shunkōdai, asked a soldier, visited the bachelor quarters of Ryōhei’s close friend Lieutenant Odaka, and spoke of Ryōhei for a while. Then we passed before the last official residence where Ryōhei had lived—it was said he had shattered a glass window in fury after being deferred from the Army University’s preparatory exam despite passing it due to administrative circumstances. The residence was a shabby wood-shingled house surrounded by plank fences like other junior officers’ quarters, with a willow tree drooping long branches within its enclosure. The drill ground where he had wandered aimlessly like a whirlwind in his heartbroken anguish now bore puddles from recent rains, red and white clover flowers blooming in clusters here and there.

Kushiro

(1)

After spending two nights in Asahikawa, we set out for Kushiro on the morning of September 23. The route to Kushiro was entirely uncharted territory.

Yesterday we saw snow on Mount Ishikari. The train interior was bitterly cold. We descended southward through Kamikawa Plain. The rice fields were yellowing. When we saw charred tree stumps standing blackened in fields and paddies here and there, we felt pierced by the undying sorrow of Ainu people within Hokkaido's ongoing development. In Shimofurano we gazed up at blue Mount Tokachi. The train finally entered mountain paths between Yūbari and Seaiwase following Sorachi River upstream. White sand; water greener than jade. Here autumn had deepened profoundly - myriad trees stood frosted and fox-colored; among them Itaya maples blazed like fire while Hokkaido's ginkgo-like katsura trees raised yellow flames. After running over five hours from Asahikawa, our train reached Kariwashi Station. This marked Ishikari-Tokachi boundary.

I stuck my head out the window and looked at the signpost on the left.

Kariwashi Station 1,756 feet above sea level, 1-2 Kariwashi Tunnel Length: 3,009 feet 6 inches Kushiro 119 miles 8 tenths

Asahikawa 72 miles 3 tenths Sapporo 158 miles 6 tenths Hakodate 337 miles 5 tenths Muroran 220 miles The train entered a 3,000-foot tunnel from Ishikari and emerged into Tokachi. From here began a descent of several thousand feet. Having first passed peaks where Ezo pines and todomatsu pines stood resplendent in emerald green or whitely withered, when we reached unobstructed vistas, our gaze—like a grand scroll-like panorama unfurling downward—raced from the frost-blighted pampas-grass slopes down which the train descended, across Tokachi's great plain stretching verdant from the foothills, until it settled where earth and sky merged. There lurked the North Pacific. Many heads leaned from windows to stare. The train twisted snakelike along mountainsides where silver grass shone white, tracing undulant curves. To the northeast stretched the blue mountain chain coiling along Ishikari, Tokachi, Kushiro and Kitami's borders. To the south rose Hidaka's azure highlands. The train shifted these mountains from right window to left through repeated switchbacks before finally descending to the plain.

For a time, the oak forest welcomed and sent us on our way. Gradually, soybean fields came into view. Tokachi was the land of beans. Rice fields of the sort seen from train windows across Asahikawa Plain and the Sapporo-Fukagawa section were still scarce in Tokachi. Obihiro was the brain of Tokachi—the seat of the Kawanishi Branch Office—a town in the midst of a vast plain. Eight geisha apprentices from Toshikatsu boarded. Today, the Abashiri Line railway had been extended to Ryoubetsu; they were heading to attend its opening ceremony.

Ikeda Station was the junction of the Abashiri Line; spherical lamps, national flags, a locomotive decked out in full regalia, and a dense black crowd of people could be seen. The train unloaded most of its passengers here and then ran eastward for a time alongside the broad-flowing Tokachi River. By the time we heard the sound of Pacific waves at Urahoro, the carriage lights had already been lit. From here, the railway line turned north at a right angle, and with intermittent sounds of the sea accompanying us all along the way, we arrived in Kushiro near nine o'clock, utterly spent. Jostled in the carriage while stealing glances at the nineteenth-night waning moon, we crossed the interminably long Nusaibashi Bridge spanning the Kushiro River—its evening tides glowing white across boundless waters—and made our way to an inn called Wajimaya.

(2)

The next day after eating breakfast, we went out sightseeing. Kushiro Town straddled both banks at the mouth of the Kushiro River. The station side was Heimin-cho; government offices, banks, rows of shops, inns and such were mostly found on the eastern bank across the bridge. The entire eastern bank formed a low hill that naturally blocked sea winds—countless houses clustered in its shadow from the water's edge up to higher terraces, countless boats resting in its shelter. We climbed from Benten-sha Shrine toward the lighthouse. At the peninsula's tip between Kushiro River and Pacific Ocean—facing eastward to open sea and westward overlooking Kushiro Bay, river and town—we gazed from a hill running parallel to the coast at Mount Oakan and Mount Meakan standing paired across the clear blue autumn sky. Steamships trailed smoke across the bay; fishing boats floated at anchor. On Nusaibashi Bridge, people crossed like ants. As eastern Hokkaido's foremost port, its aspect held imposing grandeur. Having to leave Kushiro that morning to visit someone, we hurried back to our inn after sightseeing.

Chairo

At Shiranuka Station in Kushiro—where North Pacific waves sounded their lonesome refrain—we alighted and asked the innkeeper to visit the village office to confirm whether a certain Mr. M, said to reside in Chairo, was present. They informed us he had once lived there but was now gone, his whereabouts entirely unknown. There being no alternative, I resolved to go inquire in Chairo myself. Leaving my wife and child at the inn, I secured a guide, fastened gaiters over my sneakers, took up a single Western umbrella, and set out lightly equipped. The time was already past two in the afternoon. Chairo lay three ri ahead. As our return would likely stretch into nightfall, I slipped an electric torch into my pocket while the guide carried rice balls for supper and a lantern.

With the sound of the sea at our backs, we crossed the railway tracks and proceeded westward along a great road laid straight as a spear shaft. On either side stretched sodden peatlands where yellows of patrinia, purples of marsh bellflowers, and other nameless wildflowers were dappling the frost-blighted grass. "If you drop so much as a cigarette ember here, it’ll smolder for months on end," said the guide. Along one side of the road, mine cart rails had been laid. Here and there, laborers were removing rails and sleepers.

“What are they doing here?” “Well, this was connected to the Yasuda Coal Mine,” “About two ri—ah, it’s behind that mountain there.” “They’ve already discontinued it.” Having said this, the guide explained how the intermediary who contracted these rails made improper profits—charging fifty yen even for a single bridge spanning just one ken, and so much yen per sleeper. The sleepers were mainly dusu nara oak; though chestnut trees were scarce in Hokkaido—Kushiro having fewer than three—the dusu nara oak was apparently hard, resistant to decay, and no worse than chestnut.

The guide was from Mito. A man around fifty years old, appearing carefree. He had crossed over to Hokkaido early in life and, in recent years, had come to Shiranuka where he ran a small restaurant.

“I suppose all sorts of folks have come in here.” “Oh, well that’s brought all kinds of folks comin’ in.” “There must be quite a few ruffians too, I suppose?” “Oh, well, it isn’t exactly like that—there’s this one troublesome fellow, you see.” “He’s always committing rape.” “He targets the wives and daughters of higher-status people as much as possible.” “When they’re people of good standing, he makes sure it doesn’t get out.” “Some time ago, there was this farm girl—fifteen or sixteen years old—who’d gone out cutting grass when he caught her.” “Just then, a man who had come to cut wood there discovered them, and it caused a huge uproar.” “That guy?” “In the end, he was driven out of the village and now works at a fishery in Ōtsu, so they say.”

The mountains drew near from three directions. We stopped at the solitary house and drank water from their well. The well bucket (where '槹' has its '白' replaced by '自') was a bucket; the well curb had been hollowed out from a katsura tree log measuring three shaku in diameter. It appeared to run straight through to the water's edge over ten feet deep. And the water was like crystal. There were still no cultivated fields up to this point. Since sea fog would come sweeping in, root vegetables could be grown, but nothing that grew above ground—no grains or vegetables—would thrive; one had to go three ri inland before even wheat could be cultivated.

We encountered a man carrying a great many deer antlers on his back. The dried-up riverbed of the Chairo River came into view on the left.

Around the time I thought we had come about two ri, the road bent almost at a right angle to the right. We finally reached the entrance to Chairo. By the roadside stood a large thatched-roof house.

“Let’s take a short rest,” said the guide, leading the way inside. A large hearth was cut out, and water in a great medicine pot boiled freely. From a straw bundle hung beneath sooty rafters protruded skewers of grilled small fish. Large paper lanterns hung on pillars. In one corner of the spacious earthen floor stood a shelf crowded with bowls, plates, and small dishes.

A man around fifty years old, with a slightly receding hairline and a Tenjin-style beard, appeared. He exchanged a few words with the guide. “Whom might you be visiting in Chairo?” I stated M’s name.

“Ah, Mr. M? “As for Mr. M, he no longer lives in Chairo.” “He moved last year.” “He’s now in Kushiro.” “Nishimai-machi in Kushiro.” “He runs a funeral business.” “Ah, ah—he’s thick as thieves with me! Why, just last month I went to visit him.” Having said this, the house owner took out a bundle of letters and postcards from the cupboard, flipped through them one by one, and produced a postcard to show us. There it was—his name unmistakably present. “Is your wife with you too?”

In truth, he had left his wife and children in his hometown on the mainland and crossed over to Hokkaido, after which all communication ceased; however, it was rumored through hearsay that he had taken a wife there. “Oh, his wife is with him too.” “Children? There aren’t any.” “I believe there was talk of the eldest one being in Manchuria, or so they said.”

To my surprise, the matter was settled rather quickly; I expressed my thanks and immediately returned to Shiranuka. “I had known all along.” “Oh, as for him, I believe they say he’s from Awaji.” “They say he’s running a restaurant and making quite a profit,” said the guide. When I returned to the Shiranuka inn, the autumn day had ended, and under the lamp’s shadow, my wife and child were waiting forlornly. Having eaten dinner, we returned to Kushiro on the last train past eight.

The Kyoto of Hokkaido

In Kushiro, I met Mr.M whom I had been seeking and completed my business; the next day, passing through Ikeda and Fukubetsu, I accomplished the primary purpose of this trip—visiting Elder Kanon Oka—stayed for six days, spent one night each in Asahikawa and Otaru, and on October 2nd entered Sapporo once again.

The Sapporo we had only superficially glimpsed—one day and two nights going, a day and night returning—showed no appreciable difference from the Sapporo I had seen seven years prior. It is said there are eight hundred Christians in this city of eighty thousand. It is said they rejected through municipal consensus the sole automobile that had come.

On the night of the 2nd, I listened to Pastor T’s sermon at the Independent Church and slept at Yamagataya; the following day, I went with Mr.T, Mr.O, and others to see the Agricultural College. The hands of a father and child preserved in alcohol that had been extracted from a bear’s stomach at the museum gave me a headache. When one considers that bears still roamed near this Sapporo until Meiji 14-15 [1881-1882], Hokkaido had indeed been opened up. Under Dr.Miyabe’s guidance, I viewed a few plant specimens. The purple Sakai azalea collected near the Russo-Japanese border in Karafuto and newly named; Cordyceps, whose name I had long heard of; and the fungus known as 'monkey's seat' that rots tree marrow—among others. Then I was shown insect specimens by a certain gentleman and heard fascinating accounts about beautiful butterflies and the ephemeral lives of mayflies.

Elm-shaded university lawns, avenues lined with thriving acacias—Sapporo, the Kyoto of Hokkaido, was a fine city.

We departed Sapporo by night train that day, spent the following day once more amid light rain at Lake Ōnuma Park, went to Hakodate that evening, and aboard the Umegakamaru bid a reluctant farewell to Hokkaido.

Tsugaru

After spending the night in Aomori, we set out for Hirosaki on the morning of October 6th. Tsugaru is now in its golden age as an apple kingdom. When passing through Hirosaki's castle town, Tsugaru women wearing kera and carrying baskets on their backs, Tsugaru men in straw sandals leading charcoal horses—all were walking about munching apples. At Daiichi, a shop in Daikanmachi, they dispatched two boxes to Tokyo. The deep-set shop was filled with apples, boxes, heaps of sawdust, and men and women packing goods.

Passing through old samurai districts, new commercial districts, and run-down outskirts towns, we crossed the Iwaki River and headed toward Itayanagi Village, three ri north of the castle. Mount Iwaki, not yet touched by snow, glowed the color of bellflower blossoms in the October morning sun. Encircling the mountain, autumn fields were awash with color. The highway passed through villages intermittently yellow with quince and apple fields flushed red. After about two hours, we crossed the long bridge over the Iwaki River and entered Itayanagi Village—a prosperous rural town with orderly rows of houses.

Mr.Y of Itayanagi Village was a man who wrote new-style poetry and loved literary arts while supervising an apple orchard. He had reached out to Kasuya’s thatched cottage once or twice. We stayed overnight at Mr.Y’s house. We saw Fusetsu’s oil painting *Pottery Making*—praised at the Bunten Exhibition—and Hekigodō’s framed piece *Flowering Apple Tree*, created during his three-thousand-ri journey that had brought him here too; calligraphy strips by Shiki, Heki, and Kyō; works by the Yosano couple; and others from the Chōhakuen circle. In the fifteen-hectare orchard, we saw culled apples scattered regrettably on the ground. We tasted various kinds of apples. That evening, we met Mr.Y’s friends and prominent villagers. I gave Mr.Y the Taanaa watercolor sketchbook and scribbled the following on its flyleaf.

Apples crimson, quinces yellow—an autumn day

At Mount Iwaki’s foot with you I commune

The next morning, we left Itayanagi Village early. After crossing the Iwaki River bridge, we bid farewell to the gentlemen we had met the previous night, hurriedly climbed up to Matsuruga Castle under Mr.Y’s guidance, viewed Mount Iwaki one last time from beside the bronze statue of the Tsugaru family ancestors in armor, hastily took photographs, and rushed to the station. Mr.Y also accompanied us as far as Ōwani, where we parted ways here. We continued our train journey, which would take us through Akita, Yonezawa, and Fukushima on our way back to the village.