Pathway to Japanese Literature

Nakoso Hearing that the Tohoku Line, halted by days of relentless wind and rain, had reopened, on the morning of September 7, Meiji 43, I boarded a train on the coastal line from Ueno. Past three o'clock, I alighted at Sekimoto Station and traveled onward to Hirakata by carriage.

Hirakata was a renowned fishing ground. In the southern part of the bay, stretching from the town across the facing Dejima, the pier stood as a notable sight—its rows of pilings exposed like the crawling legs of a mantis shrimp. The post-rain fishing ground held nothing but fishiness—overpoweringly fishy. After unloading our luggage at Seikaitei, we borrowed the inn's geta umbrellas and set out by rickshaw to view the Nakoso Barrier ruins. Passing through the tunnel at the town's edge, we entered from Hitachi and emerged into Iwaki. We went a short way along the desolate coastal road where great and small waves came thundering in, and alighted from our vehicle at the lone teahouse there. They sold rubbings of Nakoso's stone monuments, fossils of pine and shells, picture postcards, and such. Having the rickshaw puller carry Tsuruko on his back, we carefully crossed the slippery railway tracks and ascended along the mountain paddies toward the barrier ruins. The path takes its name from the poem about scattering blossoms in a narrow pass, and they have planted many Yoshino cherry trees there. They were all saplings. The path entered the mountains where we ascended through autumn's full splendor across the hillside—treading through bush clover, patrinia, burnet, bellflower, and cogon grass in their seasonal prime. Tsuruko, clutching a deep-hued bellflower branch the rickshaw puller had picked for her, was carried onward.

Ascending about ten chō from the teahouse on the coastal road, we arrived at the barrier ruins. At the saddle-shaped depression atop the narrow horseback-like ridge stood fourteen or fifteen ancient red and black pines—Yawata Taro's bow-hanging pine, saddle-hanging pine, and others of their venerable company—blown by Pacific winds that set their emerald crowns soughing with a rushing whisper. They were not five or six hundred years old. Beyond the pines lay nothing of particular antiquity. The stone monument dated from the Kaei era. A teahouse structure had been erected, but now that summer had passed, there were naturally no traces of visitors nor any tea master present. I scooped water from Yuzuriha Spring and stood beneath the Yumikake Pine to gaze out. To the west, white clouds and mist swirled through the layered mountains of Iwaki. To the east, the Pacific Ocean lay still, cradling the dull glow of sunset that filtered through cloud breaks. The faint rhythm of bonito boats' oars reached my ears. Had the ancient coastal road to Oshu truly passed over this mountain? Had Yawata Taro too ridden through here on horseback amidst a blizzard of flowers? The songs endured, but what might be called barrier ruins existed no longer—only pine winds chanting their eternal verses. A thousand years of human existence pass by with such effortless ease. As I stood there blankly, two young farmers descended from the mountain pass chasing a horse laden with cut grass, passed before us, then climbed up the opposite peak.

We returned to our inn in Hirakata at dusk. The bathwater was lukewarm, the toilet squalid; though the fish were fresh, their poor preparation left them reeking of brine; water drawn for drinking carried the stench of tidal flats; to compound matters, swarms of mosquitoes descended in black clouds. We had scarcely taken refuge beneath the mosquito net when rain began falling at midnight, leaking through above our heads and compelling us to hastily relocate our bedding—a wretched inaugural night of travels indeed.

Asamushi

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

Behind them passed a train bound for Aomori. Beneath their pillows，Mutsu Bay’s emerald tides lapped rhythmically. To the west lay signs of human habitation marking Aomori，while behind it rose Mount Iwaki—Tsugaru’s Fuji—diminutive against the horizon.

From Aomori came geisha-accompanied tourists singing: "Even after sharing a night together, a chima remains a chima." Five-year-old Tsuruko exclaimed upon seeing seagulls for the first time: "Mama! White crows are flying!" During their travels' idle hours, they played ohajiki with pebbles collected from the shore—one child and two adults. In that summer when I had turned ten years old—when accompanying my parents by boat to visit my grandfather at Satsuma's border—we were delayed for ten full days around Amakusa Islands across twenty-five ri of sea due to foul winds. Having exhausted all tales worth telling and finding no way to pass those interminable days together—my father nearing sixty years old; my mother approaching fifty; my ten-year-old self—we gathered pebbles and played ohajiki. That day—counting pebbles with clumsy hands—I unexpectedly recalled this memory.

Walking along the coast, scallop shells lay piled like mountains. Among the things we ate in Asamushi, the tempura of scallop adductor was particularly delicious. Along the seaside, rugosa roses bloomed profusely in purple hues, their fragrance carried on the salt-laden breeze.

Scattered dung beyond the beachside and rugosa roses

Lake Onuma

(I)

The Umegakamaru - that newly built beauty of a ship which had carried us across the Tsugaru Strait from Aomori to Hakodate in four hours - left my seasickness-prone wife thoroughly queasy despite its modern comforts. Even after a night's rest at Hakodate Pier's Park Inn, she still complained of a headache. We boarded the afternoon train straight to Lake Onuma.

Hakodate Station was an extremely rudimentary station. In the waiting room, a Buddhist monk in a brocade vestment—his face drunkenly flushed—had buttonholed a long-bearded missionary who appeared to be French and was holding forth with various harangues. The missionary was laughing while brushing him off in a noncommittal manner.

The Sapporo-bound train left Hakodate's bustle behind and gradually ascended through Kikyo and Nanae. Her head felt lighter, as though a layer had been peeled away. Hakodate - shaped like a swirling comma with Mount Gagyūsan at its heart - unfolded beneath us like a bird's-eye map.

"Before my eyes—the sea blue upon blue in northern autumn." When I looked from the left window, beyond Tsugaru Strait's expanse of deep autumn tides, the Tsugaru region floated distantly on the horizon. At Hongo Station, we saw that drunken monk alight—wearing his Fuji-shaped black hat and carrying a small green baize bag—staggering through the ticket gate. "Esashi: fifteen ri," read the station's guidepost. A little over an hour from Hakodate, our train finished climbing the mountains, passed Ōnuma Station, and reached Lake Ōnuma Park—a tourist facility in name alone. We disembarked here. Two inn guides stood waiting. Guided aboard a small boat bearing Momijikan's flag at its stern, we watched the guides bow farewell before the boatman began rowing with creaking oars.

As we exited the inlet where golden algal blooms rippled, the vast lake surface unfolded before us—and there abruptly leapt Mount Komagatake, its crimson peak long gone bald. From its eastern slope rose a wisp of smoke so faint it might have been imagined. When I had come in the summer of Meiji 36 [1903], the railway had not yet extended beyond Mori. At Lake Onuma Park too, two or three simple eateries stood along the water’s edge. The eruption of Mount Komagatake was an event that occurred afterward. Yet even as trains now reached all the way to Kushiro and Komagatake had erupted, Lake Onuma itself remained as ever—a vista of crisp clarity and solitary beauty. The date was September 14th, yet the Itaya maples around the lake were beginning to take on their autumn hues. Here and there, wild grape leaves entwined around oaks and white birches burned like fire. The air was perfectly clear, the water like a mirror. Toward Fūfujima, a single sailboat was moving. As our boat advanced quietly with the creak of oars, ducks and plovers took flight around us. Before long, the boat entered the first inlet and arrived beneath Momijikan. A maid came out to greet us. Climbing a slope thickly planted with young Itaya maples, we were shown to a back room facing the water.

I cannot speak of the Momijikan in the capital, but this Momijikan faced Lake Onuma, looked upon Mount Komagatake, and was surrounded by countless maple trees as its name suggested—a refined establishment indeed. With summer now passed, the inn stood in hushed quiet. We bathed in mineral springs heated with firewood, dined on lake carp and crucian carp under an antiquated lamp as a quiet maid attended us, then sank into peaceful sleep on that mountainside by the water's edge—a night undisturbed by any sound. In midnight's depth, thunder growled. Lightning flashed through storm shutter gaps. Then came rain's sudden rush. When I rose and slid open one shutter, the moon had already emerged, stars floating on the marsh water like fireflies.

(II) By dawn it was drizzling again intermittently, but ceased once we had breakfast. We went out fishing in a small boat. When we reached the edge of the iron bridge where trains passed through the culvert, another sudden downpour arrived with a rush. Before we could even bring the boat under the iron bridge’s shelter to wait out the rain, it had already passed. This area was somewhat deep even within the marsh. Because the waters of Lake Konuma flowed into Lake Ōnuma, the water moved like a river. No matter how much we fished, the crucian carp we aimed for wouldn’t bite, and we only caught small gotaru fish resembling goby. Having moored the boat at the waterweed-covered bank, we walked here and there through the faint autumn hues of Itaya maples. The natural hillock with its undergrowth neatly cleared, the sandy ground pleasant underfoot—though bearing the name "park," it felt all the more precious for its lack of artificial embellishments. At a spot with a clear view of Mount Komagatake, an eighteen- or nineteen-year-old youth had set up a tripod and was sketching in watercolors. Clouds drifted over Mount Komagatake, casting the lake waters and forests into shifting patterns of shadow and light—a captivating sight to behold, yet one that seemed ill-suited for sketching. As time passed, we abandoned our fishing and boarded the boat once more to tour the islands. Lake Ōnuma measures eight ri in circumference; combined with Lake Konuma, thirteen ri. It is said there were once over one hundred forty islands here, large and small. Neither possessing Chūzenji's secluded gloom nor Kasumigaura's gentle expanse, Lake Ōnuma was essentially a Matsushima transformed—its saltwater made fresh, its pines replaced by oaks, white birches, and assorted deciduous trees. Numajiri forms a waterfall. The lake produced no fish other than carp, crucian carp, and loach. There was Ōyamajima, where they had erected a bronze statue that year, and Tōgō Island. There was also an island where several old samurai graves—said to be those of past lords who once ruled this area—stood. It must have made a fine playground in summer.

Now it was desolate. Even so, silhouettes of small boats rowed by students could be glimpsed moving across the water, along with one or two pleasure boats carrying young couples. After mooring at an available shore and picking particularly beautiful wild grape leaves, we returned to the inn.

In the afternoon, we wrote picture postcards and went from the inn's main gate by land route to mail them at the station. We stepped our geta into the soft sandy ground and crossed the makeshift bridge over the inlet where reeds and various water plants grew thick. From the treetops of birches, oaks, Itaya maples and others just beginning to take on color, the reddish pointed peak of Mount Komagatake would occasionally emerge. It was a desolate scene. The essence of Hokkaido permeated through my entire being.

At dusk upon the cape extending into the marsh from the inn's garden, my wife sat on a rock and began sketching Mount Komagatake for remembrance. With Tsuruko, I examined items in my notebook and gathered wildflowers from nearby woods. The autumn sun dipped below the horizon in an instant, mountain shadows and water's radiance transforming even as we observed. When Mount Komagatake's foremost peak - still crimson with sunset's afterglow - faded to ashen hues, the small island before us shifted from violet to indigo blue, completing Lake Onuma's transition into night. My wife continued moving her sketching brush. A sky glimmering in iron-blue. Water shining pale. At intervals came plopping sounds as fish broke surface. Along the water's edge woods, roosting birds startled by some disturbance fluttered out noisily. Something hummed faintly - whether midges or mosquitoes.

“I just couldn’t get it right.” With a snap of her paintbox closing, my wife stood up. As I crouched to adjust Tsuruko on my back, my fingertips met something cold. Dew had already settled.

To Sapporo

September 16.

We departed Lake Ōnuma.

We rounded halfway around Mount Komagatake, descended into the forest, and gazed endlessly through the train window at Funka Bay's calm waters. A small steamship bound for Muroran rocked on the waves. The train ran with Mount Komagatake at its back, following the entire length of Funka Bay. As we neared Oshamambe, across the bay stood a mountain clustered like pewter-hued clouds. "That’s Mount Usu," the gentleman in our compartment informed us. Leaving the bay behind, we took to mountain roads and stopped at Kurokomai to eat soba. The soba had an excellent flavor.

We had kept Ezo Fuji in our thoughts time and again, and at Rankoshi Station were finally able to behold Ezo Fuji. With well-proportioned features, clad in trees up to its summit, its lush indigo hue seemed to drip with moisture. I suddenly felt a strong urge to climb it. In the train I met an acquaintance, Mr.O, who was returning to Sapporo Agricultural College. Having spent his summer vacation touring Korea, he was now on his return journey. We arrived at Yoichi and caught a glimpse of the Japan Sea. Yoichi is Hokkaido's renowned apple-producing region. Bathed in the evening sun, the apple orchards displayed colors like those of blossoms. So beautiful were they that when the vendor brought net bags filled with apples, I bought two bags.

Mr. O disembarked at Otaru, and we arrived in Sapporo at eight o'clock and lodged at Yamagataya.

Mid-Autumn

The 18th.

In the morning, we departed Sapporo for Asahikawa.

The Ishikari Plain spread out before us, its rice fields already tinged yellow. Seeing that wheat was still being harvested here in mid-September, I felt myself returning to Hokkaido's essential nature.

At ten o'clock, the train emerged from the tunnel and stopped at a station high on a cliff overlooking the river. It was Kamui Kotan.

On a sudden impulse, we hurriedly disembarked from the train with all our hand luggage.

We left the station under renovation—its grounds strewn with rubble—hired help at a teahouse, had Tsuruko and our hand luggage carried, and descended the steep cliff slope to the river. The dark green Ishikari River flowed in mighty torrents. A precarious temporary bridge suspended from both banks with iron wires spanned the river. At the bridge entrance stood a signpost. When we read the text, it stated: "No more than five persons may cross simultaneously." As we tentatively stepped on the bridge planks, the soles of our feet gave way softly, and with each step, the bridge swayed left and right, front and back, up and down. The sensation of crossing vine bridges in the Hida Mountains or Iya Valley must have been exactly like this. Though there was a token iron wire railing, one couldn't bring oneself to cross while loosely gripping it. We crossed without looking at the torrent below. The bridge measured twenty-four ken in length. As we stood catching our breath after crossing, a young woman carrying a charcoal sack descended from the mountain. Casting a sidelong glance at our lingering group, she traversed that suspension bridge as if flying.

Following the mountain path along the river upstream for about four or five chō, we came to a shabby wooden-shingled house with a thin chimney emitting white smoke. It was Kamui Kotan's mineral spring inn. We were first shown to a room on the back second floor with unbordered tatami mats. Before long, the guests from Asahikawa who had been playing go departed, so we moved to the front second-floor room. We soaked in the sulfur-smelling mineral spring and relaxed on the second floor. Three students in straw boaters and two bob-haired female students came to visit the neighboring room, but they immediately departed on the next train. The sound of the Ishikari River resounded with a rushing roar. At the station on the opposite riverbank’s mountainside, the clang of hammers rang out loudly as stones were split. The clamorous din echoed back as trains occasionally passed through the opposite mountain. Lonely. When I ordered river fish for lunch, they served us canned bamboo shoots with egg stew and such, with the Ishikari River before us.

After the meal, we went out to see Kamui Kotan. A little upstream lay a scenic spot called Meotoiwa. We did not go there, choosing instead to revisit the suspension bridge we had crossed earlier. Upstream from the bridge stood five or six great oak trees leaning over the river's surface. In their shade crouched a small hut where three woodcutters sawed timber for station renovations. Downstream stretched a promontory of rugged bluestone jutting fifteen or sixteen ken diagonally from the bridge's edge into the river. I alone stepped onto jagged rocks, parted thorny thickets, and reached the promontory's tip. In crevices between stones lay scattered pools where vines with crimson leaves clung to stone. Standing at land's end, I gazed across. A mixed forest mountain rose sheer from opposing banks like an upright screen - three hundred feet or more straight up. Men had carved its midsection where now clung a railway station. Mast-like pillars stood dense along cliffs at water's edge supporting this station perched sideways. Tunnels swallowed both ends of this platform. Trains crawled forth like centipedes from stone gullets only to pause briefly before creeping into opposite tunnels as though inhaled. The autumn-touched woods across showed no vivid hues yet. My eyes fell at last upon water. Where upstream rapids had churned white beneath cliffs now flowed silent indigo currents swirling beneath suspension cables - some pooling where bridge-edge rocks made deep basins while most swept past my promontory until crashing against downstream bluffs forced all waters leftward through roaring bends. Last year's floodwaters reportedly overtopped cliff roads reaching hot spring inns. One imagined terror when six-meter sludge torrents roared through this gorge. Though diminished now I could not help feeling awe before these depths.

The water depth beneath the bridge measured over twenty fathoms under normal conditions. It is said that in the past, sea sharks measuring two ken in length used to come up this far. The name Kamui Kotan, bestowed by the Ainu—children of nature—also seemed profoundly fitting.

After dinner, when the lamp was lit and the door closed, it felt as though we had sunk into the deepest depths of the earth—the sound of the river grew increasingly distinct to our ears, deepening the solitude. They gave us a bowl of bush clover mochi from the inn. Tonight was the Mid-Autumn Fifteenth Night. Encountering Mid-Autumn in Hokkaido's Kamui Kotan would surely become one of those memories to be recalled in days to come. When I slightly opened the storm shutters, the moon was unfortunately veiled by clouds, and through the hazy valley bottom, the Ishikari River rushed with a ceaseless soughing sound.

Nayoro

September 19th.

In the morning, we boarded the train from Kamui Kotan Station. The train car was packed with Nichiren sect members bound for Asahikawa in their gold-brocaded kesa and purple robes. We transferred at Asahikawa and headed toward Nayoro. From Asahikawa onward lay the main route.

Passing through Nagayama, Pippu, and Ranryū, the view gradually grew more desolate. In the fields lay something that was neither shiso nor hemp - cut and left to dry; passengers A and B in the train car debated its nature until passenger C identified it as mint.

Before long we entered Teshio. Around Wassamu, Kenbuchi, and Shibetsu, vast grasslands that might have been mistaken for pastures lay frost-seared in every direction, six-foot-tall Japanese knotweed standing scattered here and there with beautifully yellowed leaves. This was peatland. All the train passengers clicked their tongues at the waste.

I improvised a verse and said:

The peatlands, ill-suited for cultivation—how beautiful the autumn knotweed. In Shibetsu, a theater with a wooden shingle roof bearing signs such as "Kyōrakuzawa" could be seen.

Past three o'clock in the afternoon—we arrived at Nayoro, the current terminal station. At Maruishi Ryokan, we unloaded our hand luggage, drank a cup of tea, and immediately set out for the usual sightseeing.

In the Teshio River basin—resembling a shrunken Asahikawa Plain—lay Shinkai Town, where scattered houses had been cast down. From before the station stretched a main street bending at right angles, lined with hundreds of wooden-shingled roofs. What stood most numerous were sundries shops; there also appeared a rather large Shinshū temple, a Tenrikyō church, and an unadorned Christian chapel. At a shopfront I found and bought a makuwappuri melon before going to see the Teshio River. A considerable waterway—though not seeming particularly deep—its entire width filled with brown currents rushing northward. There existed a ferry drawn by steel cable. We too crossed over and walked about briefly. Most plentiful were midges. Seated on a fallen tree, we peeled the melon beneath a seven-leaf plant that overhung the path. The fruit's lack of sweetness stood undeniable—a northern trait. The sun now verged on setting, bringing a faint chill as autumn evening's loneliness closed in from all sides, pressing upon Shinkai's sparsely populated new town. Twice crossing the river, we hastened back to our inn. Through the town's center came a man on horseback returning from fields, driving horses before him. The clatter of hooves reverberated through all Nayoro.

The innkeeper was from Sanuki, and the maid who served dinner was from Aichi. In the neighboring room, the man who had earlier requested a horse and was returning to his farm in Kitami was playing Go with a guest. The flute of a traveling massage therapist drifted along the main street.

Shunkōdai

In the summer of Meiji 36 [1903], I came on an overnight express journey to Asahikawa. Asahikawa of that time was a town even more desolate than present-day Nayoro. Through the pouring rain, we went by carriage to Chikabumi, visited the home of an Ainu elder for souvenir stories, and returned after purchasing an itaya makiri knife among other things. Now, from the carriage, I looked around trying to summon those desolate memories of yore, but attempting to discern the Asahikawa of seven years prior within the Meiji 43 [1910] Asahikawa proved unsuccessful.

We exited the city, crossed the Ishikari River, viewed the Ainu village of Chikabumi from afar, passed by the Seventh Division's training ground, alighted from our carriage, and ascended Shunkōdai. Shunkōdai was Asahikawa's Kōnodai without the Edo River. Viewing the Kamikawa Plain at a glance, it lay coiled like successive fortifications north of Asahikawa. The hilltop was covered entirely in glistening white sand like powdered crystal; several paths meandered through large oak trees whose green leaves were begun to tinge with birch-like hues along their edges. Immediately below lay the Seventh Division. Large black wooden buildings and slender structures stood where foot-long horses galloped and inch-tall soldiers marched beneath red flags raised here and there while trumpets blared. During the triumphal return from the Russo-Japanese War when a grand divisional memorial service had been held upon this hilltop—amid theater performances, sumo matches, and crowds so dense they seemed near bursting—Lieutenant Shinohara Ryohei of the Parasite Tree stood among Shunkōdai's spectators clutching anguish that felt like blood in his chest after receiving a severance letter from his lover’s father the previous night.

I surveyed the scene. On the hilltop, there were no other human figures besides us, and the autumn wind was rustling the oak leaves. Shunkōdai—where the youth's heart was rent— As I stand reminiscing, the autumn wind blows.

We descended Shunkōdai, asked a soldier, visited Lieutenant Odaka’s unadorned official residence—Ryohei’s close friend—and spoke of Ryohei for some time. Then we passed before the official residence where he had last lived—the place where Ryohei, enraged at having been postponed despite passing the Army War College’s preliminary examination due to circumstances, was said to have shattered a glass window. It was a shabby wooden-shingled house surrounded by a plank fence like other lower-ranking officers’ residences, and within the enclosure, a willow tree trailed its long branches low. The training ground where he, heartbroken, had once wandered aimlessly like a swirling vortex in his anguish now bore puddles from recent rains, with clusters of red and white clover blossoms blooming here and there.

Kushiro

(1)

After spending two nights in Asahikawa, we departed for Kushiro on the morning of September 23rd. The route to Kushiro was entirely unfamiliar. Yesterday I saw snow on Ishikari Peak. It was quite cold inside the train. We descended southward through the Kamikawa Plain. The rice fields were tinged with yellow. When I saw the blackened tree stumps still standing here and there in the fields and paddies, I keenly felt the undying sorrow of the Ainu people in this ever-developing Hokkaido. In Shimofurano, I gazed up at the blue Tokachidake. The train finally entered the mountain path between Yūbari and Seaiwase, following the Sorachi River upstream along its waters. The sand was white, the water greener than jewels. Here autumn had deepened profoundly; ten thousand trees having endured frosts stood amidst tawny-hued foliage, where Itaya maples blazed like fire while Hokkaido's katsuras—their ginkgo-like leaves—sent up yellow flames. After traveling over five hours from Asahikawa, the train arrived at Kariwashi Station. It marked the boundary between Ishikari and Tokachi. I stuck my head out the window and looked at the signboard on the left.

Kariwashi Station

Elevation 1,756 feet, 1-2 Karikachi Tunnel Length: 3,009 feet 6 inches

Kushiro: 119 ri 8 bu

Asahikawa: 72 ri 3 bu

Sapporo: 158 ri 6 bu

Hakodate: 337 ri 5 bu

Muroran: 220 ri The train entered a three-thousand-foot tunnel from Ishikari and emerged into Tokachi. From here on began a descent of several thousand feet. After passing peaks where Yezo spruces and Sakhalin firs stood emerald-brilliant or whitely withered, when we reached unobstructed vistas, my gaze—like a grand vertical scroll painting smoothly unfurling—traveled from the frost-browned hillsides down which the train descended, across Tokachi’s vast plain stretching endlessly from verdant foothills to where earth and sky dissolved into one. There lay the North Pacific Ocean hidden beneath. Many heads leaned out windows to gaze. The train writhed snakelike along mountainsides where pampas grass glowed white, tracing undulating patterns. To the northeast appeared blue mountain ranges spanning Ishikari, Tokachi, Kushiro and Kitami borders. To the south rose Hidaka’s azure high mountains. The train shifted these peaks from right window to left several times before finally descending to the plain.

For now, an oak forest welcomed and saw us on our way. Gradually, soybean fields began to appear. Tokachi was the land of beans. The kind of rice paddies one saw from train windows across the Asahikawa Plain and between Sapporo and Fukagawa were still scarce in Tokachi. Obihiro served as Tokachi's administrative center, the location of the Kasaishi Branch Office—a town in the midst of a vast plain. Eight geisha apprentices boarded from Toshikatsu. They were heading to the opening ceremony for the newly extended Abashiri Line railway reaching Toshikatsu. Ikeda Station marked the junction of the Abashiri Line; globe-shaped lamps, national flags, and a locomotive adorned with decorations came into view amid a sea of dark figures. The train unloaded most passengers here and ran eastward awhile alongside the Tokachi River's roaring flow. By the time we heard Pacific waves at Urahoro, night had deepened, and the compartment lights had been lit. From there, the tracks turned sharply northward, carrying us continuously along the sea's murmuring edge until we arrived in Kushiro near nine o'clock, completely exhausted. Jostled in our rickshaw beneath the nineteenth-day waning moon, we crossed Nusamai Bridge's interminable span over the Kushiro River where evening tides shone white, finally reaching Wajimaya inn.

(2)

The next day, after eating our meal, we went out sightseeing. Kushiro Town straddled both banks of the Kushiro River mouth. The station side constituted the commoners' district, while government offices, banks, rows of shops, and inns 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 ground, with numerous boats moored in its shelter. We ascended from Benten Shrine toward the lighthouse. At the peninsula's tip between the Kushiro River and Pacific Ocean—facing east toward open waters and west overlooking Kushiro Bay, the river, and town below—we stood atop a long hill running parallel to the sea. Across the crisp cerulean autumn sky, we beheld Mount Oakan and Mount Meakan standing in twin splendor. In the bay floated steamships trailing smoke and fishing boats. On Nusamai Bridge, people crossed like ants. As befitted eastern Hokkaido's foremost port, its bearing held profound majesty. Having to leave Kushiro by noon to visit someone, we hurriedly concluded our sightseeing and returned to our inn.

Chashiro

At Shiranuka Station in Kushiro—where North Pacific waves echoed desolately—I alighted and requested the innkeeper to visit the village office to investigate whether a certain Mr. M residing in Chashiro was present. They reported he had once lived there but was now gone, his whereabouts entirely unknown. In any case, there was nothing for it but to go to Chashiro and make inquiries. Leaving my wife and child at the inn, I secured a guide and set out lightly equipped with gaiters, athletic shoes, and a single Western-style umbrella. It was already past two in the afternoon. To Chashiro was three ri. Since our return would likely extend into nightfall, I placed a flashlight in 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 along the great road stretching west as straight as a spear shaft. On either side stretched endless sodden peatlands, where goldenrod yellows, marsh bellflower purples, and other nameless wildflowers tinted the frost-bitten grasses. "If you drop so much as a cigarette ember here, it'll smolder away for a month or two," the guide explained. On one side of the road lay trolley rails. Here and there, laborers were removing rails and sleepers.

“What are they doing here?” “They were part of the Yasuda coal mine operation,” the guide explained. “About three ri away—ah, behind that mountain there. They discontinued it some time back.” He went on to describe how a middleman involved in the rail project had made outrageous profits—fifty yen for a mere six-foot bridge here, several yen per sleeper there. The sleepers were primarily dusu oak; though chestnut trees are scarce in Hokkaido—Kushiro having fewer than three—the dusu oak’s hardness and resistance to decay reportedly made it chestnut’s equal.

The guide was a man from Mito. A man around fifty, seemingly carefree. He had crossed over to Hokkaido early on and, in recent years, had come to Shiranuka where he ran a small eatery. “All sorts of people must have been moving in here.” “Well now, all sorts’ve characters come swarmin’ in.” “There must be quite a few rogues around too.” “Well, no—there’s this one troublesome fellow, y’see. He keeps forcing himself on women. Targets wives and daughters from respectable families as much as he can. When it’s someone respectable, they try hushin’ it up best they can. There was this farmer’s daughter—fifteen or sixteen—went out cuttin’ grass, and he grabbed her. Then some woodcutter showed up right then and there—made a huge ruckus.” “That scoundrel?” “In the end they drove ’im outta the village. Now they say he’s over in Ōtsu workin’ at a fishery.”

The mountains closed in from three directions. We stopped at a solitary house and drank water from their well. The well bucket—using a modified jié character※—was an ordinary pail, while the well curb had been hollowed from a katsura log measuring three shaku* in diameter. It appeared to extend straight down over ten feet to the water’s edge, and the water was like crystal. There were still no cultivated fields up to this point—because sea fog comes sweeping in, root vegetables can be cultivated here, but nothing that grows above ground—grains or vegetables—will thrive; one must venture at least three ri inland before wheat or any such crops become possible.

We encountered a man carrying a large load of deer antlers. The dried-up riverbed of the Chashiro River came into view on the left.

When I thought we had come about two ri*, the road bent almost at a right angle to the right. We had already reached the entrance to Chashiro. By the roadside stood a large thatched house.

“Let’s take a short breather here,” said the guide, leading the way as he stepped inside.

A large hearth had been hollowed out, its swinging iron kettle bubbling vigorously with boiling water. From the sooty rafters hung a straw-wrapped bundle skewered with grilled fish on sticks. Thick bundles hung from the pillars. In one corner of the broad earthen floor stood shelving crowded with bowls, plates, and small dishes.

A man around fifty with a slightly receding hairline and a scholarly beard appeared. The guide exchanged a few words with the man.

“Who might you be visiting in Chashiro?”

I mentioned M's name.

“Ah, Mr. M?” “If you mean Mr. M, he’s no longer in Chashiro.” “He moved last year.” “He’s now in Kushiro.” “He’s in Nishi-Nusamai-chō of Kushiro.” “He’s running a funeral parlor.” “W-well, I’m on very close terms with him—why, just last month I went to visit him.”

With that, the host took out a bundled stack of letters and postcards from the cupboard, flipping through them one by one, then extracted and showed a single postcard. There was indeed his name. “Is his wife with him as well?”

In truth, he had left his wife and children in his hometown on the mainland when he came to Hokkaido and had been out of contact since, but it was rumored through hearsay that he had taken a wife there.

“Well, his wife is with him.” “Children? There are none.” “I believe there was talk of an older one being in Manchuria, if I recall correctly.”

The matter was resolved surprisingly quickly, so I expressed my thanks and immediately returned to Shiranuka. “We had it all sorted out.” “Well, as for that man—they say he’s definitely from Awaji.” “He’s running an eatery and earning quite a bit, they say,” said the guide.

When I returned to the inn at Shiranuka, the autumn day had darkened, and beneath the lamplight, my wife and child waited forlornly. After eating dinner, I returned to Kushiro on the last train past eight o'clock.

The Kyoto of Hokkaido

In Kushiro, I met with Mr. M whom I had been seeking and accomplished my business there; the next day, passing through Ikeda and Rikubetsu, I fulfilled the primary purpose of this journey—visiting Elder Kanshiro. After a six-day stay, spending one night each in Asahikawa and Otaru, I entered Sapporo for the second time on October 2nd.

Having spent one day and two nights on the outbound journey and one day and night on the return, the Sapporo I had superficially glimpsed showed scarcely any difference from what I had seen seven years prior. It was said that in this city of eighty thousand people there existed eight hundred Christians. They claimed the municipality had collectively resolved to expel its sole automobile through public deliberation. On the night of the second, I listened to Reverend T's sermon at the Independent Church before retiring at Yamagataya; come morning, I visited the Agricultural College with Mr. T, Mr. O, and others. The father's hand and child's hand preserved in alcohol from a bear's stomach—specimens I saw at the museum—left my head throbbing. To think bears still roamed near this Sapporo until Meiji 14 or 15 [1881-1882] demonstrated how thoroughly Hokkaido had been civilized. Under Dr. Miyabe's guidance I examined several plant specimens: the purple Sakai azalea newly christened after being gathered near Karafuto's Russo-Japanese border; Cordyceps fungi whose name I'd long known by reputation; the monkey's perch that decays tree marrow. A certain gentleman then showed me insect collections while sharing captivating tales—of resplendent butterflies and mayflies living their brief lives. Elm-shaded university lawns, grand avenues lined with flourishing acacias— Sapporo remained Hokkaido's Kyoto, a provincial capital of rare refinement.

We departed Sapporo by night train that day, spent the following day once more amidst the light rain of Lake Ōnuma Park, went to Hakodate that evening, and bade a reluctant farewell to Hokkaidō aboard the Umegakamaru.

Tsugaru

Having spent the night in Aomori, we went to Hirosaki on the morning of October 6th.

Tsugaru was now in the golden age of its apple kingdom’s prosperity. As we passed through Hirosaki’s castle town, Tsugaru women in straw raincoats carrying back baskets and Tsugaru men in straw sandals pulling charcoal-laden carts all walked about munching on apples. At the shop called Daiichi in Daikanmachi, they dispatched two boxes to Tokyo. The deep-set store was filled with apples, boxes, great piles of sawdust, and men and women packing.

Passing through old samurai districts, new commercial quarters, and tumbledown outskirts, we crossed the Iwaki River and headed toward Itayanagi Village three ri north of the castle. Mount Iwaki, which had not yet seen snow, stood colored like bellflowers in the October morning sun. Autumn fields encircling the mountain lay tinged in full hue. The road wound through villages intermittently yellow with quince and crimson apple fields. After about two hours crossing the Iwaki River's long bridge, we entered Itayanagi Village—a prosperous rural town with orderly house rows.

Mr. Y of Itayanagi Village oversaw apple orchards while composing new-style poetry and pursuing literary interests. He had visited Kasuya's thatched cottage once or twice. We lodged overnight at Mr. Y's house. There we viewed Fusetsu's oil painting "Pottery Making"—acclaimed at the Bunten Exhibition—alongside Hekigodō's framed work "Flowering Apple," created during his three-thousand-ri wanderings that had also brought him here. We examined tanzaku poems by Shiki, Hei, and Kyo, as well as works by the Yosano couple and Chikuhakuen circle members. In a fifteen-chōbu orchard, I saw rejected apples scattered wastefully. I sampled varieties of apples.

In the evening, I met with Mr.Y's friends and the village's prominent figures as well. I presented the T.A. Anna watercolor sketchbook to Mr.Y and inscribed on its flyleaf to the left this whimsical verse: Apples vermilion, quinces yellow—an autumn day Beneath Mount Iwaki, I converse with you.

The following morning, we left Itayanagi Village early. Crossing the Iwaki River bridge, we bid farewell to the gentlemen met the previous night, then hurriedly climbed up to Maizuru Castle under Mr. Y’s guidance, took one final look at Mount Iwaki from beside the bronze statue of the Tsugaru family’s armored ancestors, hastily snapped photographs, and rushed headlong to the station. Mr. Y accompanied us as far as Ōwani before we parted ways there. We continued our rail journey that would carry us through Akita, Yonezawa, and Fukushima on our return to the village.