Pathway to Japanese Literature

Deep Pool

I

It was in early June of Shōwa 15 (1940) that I first attempted ayu friend fishing in the Kumano River of Nanki. At that time, I traveled with my deceased fishing companion Sato Sonosuke and the elderly actor Uemiyama Kusao.

We visited Nachi Mountain.
The fresh greenery veiling the round mountain east of Nachi Falls was awakeningly vivid.
Old trees, their buds bursting forth in hues of yellow, pale green, light brown, golden brown, blue, and pale navy, mingled their fragrances as they glowed resplendently under the midday sun.
The radiance of living colors emitted by young buds and leaves lacked the quality of human-made paints.
In other words, no matter how skilled a painter may be, I believe the vibrant resilience brought to life by fresh greenery could never truly be captured.

On the cliffs lining both banks of Doro Gorge, the young leaves of the Kitayama River—basking in early summer’s gentle breeze—were colors that sank deep into my eyes. They rippled and swayed, their reflections trembling across the mirror-like surface of the clear, tranquil deep pool.

In the rapids of the Kitayama River flowing near Kizuro, there was a fierce yet noble dignity. Peering at this from the propeller boat’s window, I imagined that magnificent ayu must surely dwell in the depths of these swift currents. The riverbed stones formed layered accumulations of sedimentary rock. The flowing water held crystalline clarity. On both the right bank’s cliffs and the left bank’s gravel beds—though this was a gorge—there perhaps emerged an ambiance that refused to impose harshness upon people, born from the river rapids’ stately grace.

I parted with my fishing companions who were hastening onward and, owing to the inn’s arrangements, came to a stop at Hiashi—one ri downstream from where the Totsukawa and Kitayama Rivers converge to become the Kumano River.
The landscape here too was expansive and agreeable.

From the second floor of the Hiashi inn, the wide gravel bed of the Kumano River lay spread out beneath my eyes.
I enjoyed ayu friend fishing to my heart’s content there over four or five days.
Though it was barely past the season’s opening in early June, an astonishing number of large-bodied ayu were caught.
In late August of that year, I returned to Hiashi on the Kumano River once more.

II

The truth was, I wanted to take advantage of my son’s summer vacation and have him catch the large ayu of the Kumano River.
On the morning of August 2nd, we departed Tokyo.

Our party consisted of three: Mr. Suzuki Toshisada, president of Nihon Hyoronsha; myself; and my son.
First, we changed trains at Kanaya Station on the Tokaido Line and headed for Ieyama Town.
We had intended to attempt friend fishing in the middle reaches of the Ōi River.

However, in the upper reaches of the Ōi River—specifically along the southern face of the Akaishi Mountain Range—day after day of severe thunderstorms had caused landslides, turning the river a milky white and rendering fishing conditions unfavorable.
Nevertheless, since they had gone to the trouble of coming all this way, the three of them shouldered their rods and headed to the current.
However, as expected, they caught nothing.
Altogether, they caught only twelve or thirteen fish, and after spending about two hours at it, they returned to the inn.

Mr. Suzuki had brought along a bottle of high-quality whiskey as a travel companion.
At dinner, when the two of us faced each other and pulled out that cork, the inn’s young master came to visit and began idle chatter. Though not a man particularly skilled at flattery, when offered a cup, he praised the whiskey’s quality while drinking heartily.

We, drawn in by the innkeeper’s smooth-talking, kept refilling his cup until realizing he had already consumed most of the four-gō bottle.
When he left our room in high spirits, he promised to deliver premium sake later—but no matter how long we waited, he never kept that promise.

The next morning, we returned to Kanaya Station, where Mr. Suzuki parted ways and returned to Tokyo.
My son and I headed for Kyoto.
It was because I wanted to try catching the stocked ayu in the upper reaches of the Kamo River.
I stopped at my niece and her husband’s house in Kamigamo and explored the gorge of the Kamo River about six kilometers upstream from there, but that year’s stocked ayu—merely twenty thousand—had already been all caught, and there was only a single local young man.
I had just seen him performing snagging and pulling at the drop-off of a small rapid.

The man, thinking that if he kept at it like this perhaps one or two remaining fish might bite, had persevered since this morning for three hours, but even now hadn't had a single bite. He supposed that all the ayu stocked in this river must have already been caught on hooks. And so, the man sat down with me on a riverside rock to take a smoke break, recounting how a few days prior he had traveled south from Gojō in Yoshino along the Kumano Kaidō road down to near Hongū and fished in the Totsukawa River, where he had caught an impressive number of ayu. He had attempted weighted fly fishing rather than friend fishing, but the fish were said to be remarkably large.

After staying at my niece’s house for two or three days, we left Kyoto on a hot afternoon and arrived in Kobe.
We decided to visit our fishing companion Morishita Uson—a detective novelist—in Tosa, Shikoku.
We boarded a night ship from Kobe, and by the time the vessel rounded Cape Muroto’s tip, the sun had already risen above the Pacific waves.

In the early winter of Meiji 45 (1912), I had chosen this ship route for a journey of sad fate and gazed upon the same scenery from this vessel’s window at the same morning hour, but the hues of land and sea—all that met my eyes—had darkened along with my heart.

However, this time, it was a joyous journey accompanied by my son, who had now become an upperclassman in secondary school.
What I saw, what I felt—everything was bright.
The view of Cape Muroto—a celebrated scenic spot seen from the ship’s window—differed entirely in character from what I had witnessed over thirty years prior.
Through autumn’s crystalline air following Risshū’s passing*, morning mist glowed white and rose-pink along wave-lapped shores while fishing villages and pine groves stretching endlessly southward warmed themselves in dawn’s faint haze.

A flock of storm-petrels flickered between swells.
Seagulls wheeled.
Viridian forests crowning the cape’s tip climbed mountain ridges—staining bare slopes ink-black where they dissolved into cloud-wreathed peaks.
On distant flanks burned one golden point.
Lightning-like rays from that radiant nexus pierced my vision.
Might morning sun have glanced off some mountain magnate’s glass-paneled veranda?

*Risshū refers to立秋 (Start of Autumn solar term)

How tranquil, how heartwarming a landscape this was.
The view of the southern country adds a pure and beautiful sentiment to the traveler’s heart.

III

A little past noon, we arrived at Kochi Port in the inner reaches of Kumie.
As Morishita Uson had been suffering from sciatica for several days and was confined to bed, Mrs. Morishita—radiantly beautiful—came to meet my son and me at the wharf accompanied by an adorable boy of about ten.

Uson’s residence lay in Sakawa Town six ri west of Kochi.
From there she had come expressly to greet us in her husband’s stead and as a parental proxy.
At the wharf’s ticket gate stood a boy around ten years old holding aloft a two-foot pole from which fluttered a sheet of hanshi paper inscribed “Mr. Sato Koseki,” scrutinizing each traveler while we observed him from behind in the queue.

Uson’s illness took a turn for the better sooner than expected.
The three of us—Uson, my son, and I—shouldered our rods and went to the village of Kenida in the middle reaches of the Niyodo River, six or seven ri from Sakawa Town.
Here, though referred to as the middle reaches of the Niyodo River, was a gorge where high mountains and steep cliffs pressed in from both sides.
In the flowing water, boulders as large as houses dotted here and there; the water churned and crashed into foam, with raging rapid after raging rapid revealing the river’s true form.

The rounded stones on the riverbed were smooth, the water clear, the current swift.
And in the shadows of cliffs here and there, blue pools—where bubbles gather and swirl gently—lay clear and serenely still.
I think this Niyodo River is perfectly suited for ayu to grow large and thrive in great numbers.

In Kenida, the three of them became engrossed in fishing for five or six days. When I first saw the Niyodo River and felt it possessed a magnificent flow, just as I had sensed, this river was home to numerous large ayu. The three of them walked along the water’s edge day after day, forgetting themselves.

The inn there was not operating as a regular business but had a custom of lodging anglers who came from afar every summer. Uson was an old acquaintance of this inn. On the morning of our departure, Uson asked them to prepare the bill. Then, the innkeeper—a diligent old woman of sixty-five or sixty-six years—answered that forty sen per person per day would suffice. Of course, this included two meals a day—morning and evening—along with a lunch box and even bedding in the room rate.

Upon hearing the old woman’s answer, Uson wore an expression as if to say this was only natural.
I compared the faces of the old woman and Uson and was inwardly astonished.

Shōwa 15 (1940) marked the fifth year since the outbreak of the China Incident.
It was a time when terms like “controlled economy” and “official rates” began circulating through society, and people in cities were astonished as daily necessities grew scarcer and prices continued to rise.
And yet, how could the inn’s rate here be like this?

There was no implication in either her words or expression that the old woman had set the lodging rate low for Uson, an old acquaintance. Nor did Uson show any sign of composedly acknowledging this.

IV

I once embarked on an ayu fishing trip to Su-no-Uchi in Sakagami Village, Yoshiki District of Ura-Hida, some fifteen or sixteen years ago.
The area near this village is renowned for producing large ayu over a foot long since ancient times, where the Miyagawa River—the upper reaches of the Jinzū River flowing through Etchū Province—courses its rapids south to north.

At that time, as the train line from Toyama to Takayama had not yet been fully completed, Su-no-Uchi was in the midst of railway bed construction. There at the inn, they placed a large pot on the hearth and were cooking pot rice.

One morning, I tentatively asked the innkeeper how much the lodging fee was. However, the innkeeper wore an apologetic expression—had something perhaps displeased me? "The lodging fee is forty sen per night including three meals," he replied. "But if you should find that too dear, we could arrange a lower rate." Hearing this, I was the one left abashed.

No, that wasn't it.
Forty sen was far too cheap.
So when I suggested adding one or two more dishes to breakfast and dinner and setting a more appropriate rate, the innkeeper replied, "Understood."

True to expectations, from that night onward there were one or two more small plates and soups than previous evenings.
In the mornings too, raw eggs and such were added.
Delicious.

Two or three days later, I called the innkeeper and asked by how much he had raised the inn rate this time. Then the innkeeper, wearing another apologetic expression, said, “There are no rates this high in this area, but we have decided to charge forty-five sen per night with three meals.” “I’m terribly sorry for the inconvenience,” she added.

After seven or eight years had passed, I once again encountered lodging rates of forty sen per night here in Kenida.

“You know,” I said, “if we don’t give the old woman a proper tip, paying just forty sen for lodging doesn’t sit right with me at all. Let’s at least settle the bill at one yen per person.”

After the old woman left to write the receipt at the front desk, I whispered to Uson.

“Understood.”
“But leave that adjustment to me.”

Uson already appeared to be fully aware of everything.

Fresh ayu could not be taken back to Sakawa Town.
The ayu they caught daily there were grilled with salt, piled high on large plates, and each evening the three of them ate their fill.
The portions they couldn’t finish were prepared as dried preserves and salt-cured.
After wrapping these in a furoshiki and packing them as luggage, Uson paid the inn fee.

We expressed our deep gratitude to the old woman for the lengthy trouble we had caused.
Yet the old woman, with several times more politeness than we had shown, bowed her head repeatedly while intoning phrases about how receiving such an excessive tip was nothing short of divine blessing.

After stepping out onto the main road and rounding the corner at the mountain’s edge, I asked Uson, “The old woman seemed terribly pleased—but just how much of a tip did you leave?”
“It was nothing significant,” Uson answered.
“Since the rate was forty sen per night with three meals, I just tacked on ten sen and paid fifty sen per person.”

I was astonished once more.

“There’s no need for such astonishment,” he said. “From your Tokyoite perspective, you’d feel so moved by the low rate that you’d want to pay one or even two yen per night—but that would render it meaningless. The outcome proves poor. You see, here in these backwaters, tea money is fixed at five or ten sen per person nightly. With that alone, recipients feel fully satisfied by a guest’s gesture. Yet leaving tips three or four times the lodging fee becomes pure recklessness. Their gratitude thermometer peaks at ten sen—no matter how much more you give beyond that, the gauge won’t rise a single degree. Rather, they’d only scorn you as someone who can’t handle money properly, who treats it carelessly. Even good medicine turns harmful when overdosed—effectiveness doesn’t justify reckless excess. Why force extra payment and stain their sincerity needlessly, hmm?”

Uson laughed heartily, the muscles around his eyes, mouth, and nose on his face—tanned pitch-black by the summer sun—quivering.

I guess that’s how it works—listening to Uson’s explanation, I was utterly impressed.

V

After that, I stayed at the Morishita residence until past mid-August, fished around various rivers and seas, returned again to Kyoto, and resolved to journey to the Kumano River in southern Kii Province.
On this journey, my niece and her husband joined us.
In early August, when the Kisei Line had been extended to Kinomoto at the entrance of Yanokawa Pass on the eastern edge of Kii Province, unlike during our June journey, we could effortlessly board the train from Osaka Tennoji and travel directly to our destination.
Along the way, we stayed one night at Koshinoyu in Katsuura. The next morning, my niece and her husband boarded a propeller boat from Shingu to Doro, while we parents and children took a bus from Shingu Station and headed to Hiatari Village, five *ri* inland.

At the inn at Hiatari, the rate was one yen and fifty sen per night, with a considerable amount of feasting.
Every evening, two bottles of beer were provided as customary.
This was of course separate from the inn rate, but by current market standards, it was practically free.

In front of this village, along the Kumano River, there were excellent fishing spots stretching continuously both upstream and downstream. The ayu measured seven to eight *sun* in length, with each fish weighing from twenty to thirty-five or thirty-six *momme*, all plump and well-fed. Truly in great numbers, large ayu were hooked on both my rod and my son’s rod. When the ayu of the Kumano River migrated upstream one *ri* from Hiatari to where the river branched, those turning left headed into the Totsukawa River, while those going right entered the Kitayama River. However, it was regrettable that the ayu entering the Totsukawa lacked flavor. The rock composition of this river did not properly nurture the quality of ayu. This was because volcanic or igneous rocks had spread across the riverbed. Rivers originating from mountains with igneous rock foundations, when compared to those fed by sedimentary rock ranges, somehow yielded ayu with less pronounced aroma. And they did not grow plump. In particular, they often lacked sufficient fat.

I thought this was likely because waters originating from igneous and volcanic rocks failed to produce the high-quality diatoms, blue-green algae, green algae, and other such organisms that ayu habitually favored as their regular diet.

In contrast, the ayu drawn to the Kitayama River’s waters possessed truly splendid form and aroma.
As one could clearly distinguish by observing the river confluence, while the Totsukawa River’s stones were small, gray, and coarse-grained, those of the Kitayama River were large and smooth, tinged with blue, white, and pale red—and one would notice how the lithology of ancient strata spread across the Yoshino region upstream of this river.

Moreover, while the bellies of Totsukawa River ayu contained fine sand, those of Kitayama River ayu had none.
This too might have stemmed from differences in rock composition.

As one ascended the Kitayama River upstream through Kizuro, Shimodoro, and Kamidoro, the ayu’s appearance, flavor, and aroma grew more splendid.
Furthermore, those reaching the Nanairo area of Higashimuro County attained seventy to eighty *momme* in size; during July’s peak season, their backs and heads layered with delicate fat rendered them peerless delicacies whether salt-grilled or served as sashimi.

VI

My son too had recently grown quite skilled at friend fishing.
In the Kumano River, he achieved results nearly matching his parent’s.

The place where I first taught this child the art of friend fishing was the midstream section of the Kuji River flowing past Nishikane in Kuji District, Hitachi Province.
Then I took the child upstream along the Samegawa River, entering west from Ueda Station in Iwaki Province onto the Gozaisho Kaido.
I brought them to hone their skills at Suruga’s Fuji River, Enshū’s remote Tenryū River, and Izu’s Kanogawa River.
For two or three consecutive years, I took them to the Uono River flowing through the Minamiuonuma and Kitauonuma districts of Echigo, training them in rod handling around Muikamachi, Itsukamachi, Urasa, Koide, and Horinouchi.

Given all that, it was only natural he would improve somewhat.

By late August, so that he wouldn’t be late for the start of school, my son left his parent behind and returned to Tokyo ahead by crossing Yanokawa Pass.
Even after that, I continued to leisurely commune with the waters of the Kumano River.

Higashimuro County belongs to Mie Prefecture, while Nishimuro County falls under Wakayama Prefecture.
The Kumano River flows eastward along this county boundary through deep western mountains before emptying into the Pacific Ocean.
From Hiatari Village on the Wakayama side, the view of rounded mountains across in Mie Prefecture and villages nestled at their feet remained profoundly serene.
Particularly before dawn, when pale morning mist drifted westward from the mountainsides, the scene held an ethereal quality divorced from earthly concerns.

I also stayed overnight in Shingu.
The Kumano River Bridge Sodekōsen Inn where I stayed had a grand structure but was utterly inhospitable; though Shingu’s streets were narrow, a calm and welcoming air flowed through the town.
The precincts of Kumano Shrine were equally solemn.
The head priest here was an ardent enthusiast of friend fishing and also an avid reader of my works.

Around the time when the fresh coolness of morning and evening began to be pleasantly felt on the skin, I bid farewell to the Kumano River at Hiatari and set out from Shingu through Kinomoto, Yanokawa Pass, and Owase, following the Miyagawa River in Ise until reaching Aikōguchi, all while making my way toward the remote Tenryū River in the depths of Enshū. At Tenryū River in Nishiwatari, I fished for only half a day; from the next day onward, a typhoon struck, and thus I never gained the opportunity to encounter Tenryū’s large mountain ayu. The ayu of the Tenryū River may not be of the highest quality, but in terms of their large size and powerful strength, they would stand shoulder to shoulder with Hida’s Miyagawa River.

VII

“My daughter said, ‘It’s unfair that you only take Brother fishing and always leave me at home.’”
She lodged a complaint with her father.

Thus, I once attempted a fishing excursion to the waterland region spanning Chiba and Ibaraki Prefectures, accompanying my children to target fledgling crucian carp while joining the members of Mizuno Shumisha.
That was when my daughter was in her first or second year of girls’ school.
After that, I also took them crucian carp fishing at Lake Tega in Chiba Prefecture two or three times.
And on my way back, I also picked up some mugwort rice cakes and skewered cutlets.

I invited her to sea fishing as well, but my daughter did not agree.
My son accompanied me to Ajiro in Izu, Kamoi next to Uraga, and Takeoka in Shimousa for sea bream fishing.
And from the quiet seabed of Tokyo Bay drifting between Kannonzaki and Futtsu Cape, I had him haul up a crimson red sea bream so vivid it seemed to deceive the eye—yet for some reason, my son never developed a deep interest in sea fishing.

After all, river fishing was more interesting, he said.
He found ayu fishing, yamame trout fishing, and hayazuri fishing more engaging.
On a bitterly cold January day when fingertips might freeze off, I took him winter crucian carp fishing at the Shin-Tone River in Hirata, Inasabu District, Ibaraki Prefecture—yet even then he maintained that watching the line and float sway in freshwater was more enjoyable than sea fishing.

The sea may not have suited my son’s nature.

Day after day, my daughter would plead ceaselessly for me to teach her friend fishing.
Thus in July of Shōwa 18 [1943], I took her to the Fuji River near Iwabuchi on the Tōkaidō.
That same year in mid-June, I had been staying at the lodge by Fujikawa Bridge in Iwabuchi with Mr. Nakajima Gosaku, Mr. Miyasaka Tomiku, and others to fish when torrential rains upstream muddied the Fuji River’s waters, prompting us to spend a day at the Okitsu River instead.

Though the Okitsu River had also turned turbid, this quick-clearing stream had already regained a faint haze of clarity, making it evident that fishing would begin in two or three days.
Nevertheless, we decided to try casting our lines anyway, each catching four or five small, lean ayu.
On our return journey, after disembarking at Iwabuchi Station and making our way back to the lodge near Fujikawa Bridge, I sustained a serious injury.
It happened right before Nojima Seiji's villa.
As I walked eastward along the Tōkaidō road in evening twilight, a bicycle came hurtling from the darkness at terrifying speed and collided with me.
When I was knocked onto the road, the bicycle—with its rider still mounted—crashed down squarely upon my prone body.

The moment I fell, pain shot through my entire body, but when I tried to rise, my right leg refused to obey. Peering through the twilight gloom, I saw a gash wider than an infant’s mouth gaping on the right side of my shinbone’s ridge. The metal rod protruding from some part of the bicycle must have pierced deep into the soft flesh and torn it open.

VIII

I immediately returned to Tokyo and received a doctor’s treatment.
The doctor said I must absolutely not enter water until fully healed.

I endured staying in Tokyo for about ten days, but I couldn’t bear it any longer.
The figures of ayu darted and swam before my eyes; no matter how I chased or swatted them away, their agile forms kept appearing.
I made my daughter serve as a makeshift nurse and, carrying the ointments and bandages received from the doctor, limped all the way back to the Fuji River.
"I was absolutely forbidden to enter water until fully healed."
The doctor’s words—those very words—I thought them a precept of divine blessing for my fishing training, one I could not have obtained even if sought.

From my youth and for many years thereafter, I could not feel as though I had truly savored friend fishing unless I soaked my feet in the water. In other words, I had unconsciously compelled myself to do so as if soaking my feet in river water while fishing were an indispensable condition of friend fishing. The habit of many long years had indeed governed my very being.

However, I had not yet attained full-fledged friend fishing. There was no such strict rule as absolutely not wetting one’s feet, but if there happened to be a spot where one could fish without getting them wet, then there would be no particular need to step into the current. Knowing that unless I took one more step into the water, the tip of my rod could not reach the desired spot—yet bound by the commandment not to wet my feet—it felt absurd to force myself to stand atop a stone on the bank. A natural stance—this must be the essence of fishing.

However, my friend fishing would never feel complete unless I entered the current. Disregarding whether it was necessary or unnecessary in any given situation, whenever I went to a fishing spot, I would inevitably step into the flow. This was an obstinate fishing habit I often reproached myself about. Yet when facing the water, I would forget myself and become immersed in it. Who could say how many years I had battled this vice? Still, even then I remained unable to steer this habit toward proper form.

Until fully healed, I absolutely must not get the wound wet with water.
Obtaining this admonition was a stroke of unexpected good fortune.
If I could not correct my own bad habits through my own will, then perhaps I should use the immovable conditions imposed from without to achieve my purpose.
Very well—I resolved that during the period until this leg injury fully healed, I would attempt to correct my habit of unnecessary immersion in water.

For the sake of my beloved pastime—whether exploiting or misusing the doctor’s prohibition—I contrived a rationale, diverted water to my own paddies, paid no heed to the old woman’s attempts to stop me, and with my daughter in tow while dragging my aching leg, once again sallied forth to the Fuji River.

To begin with, I was raised by the rapids of Jōshū's upper Tone River.
The Tone River had abundant water volume with a steep gradient, its bed scattered with large rocks, making it what was renowned throughout the land as a raging rapid.
Ravines, deep pools, and gravel beds intermingled everywhere; even when wielding long rods measuring ten to twelve meters, there remained many places where the decoy ayu could not reach their targeted spots.
Thus on the upper reaches of the Tone River, it became customary for robust anglers to handle rods over ten meters long, while even those of lesser strength gripped poles measuring eight to nine meters—and beyond that, to stand chest-deep in the rapids while fishing.
This solidified into people's custom until they developed a habit of immersing themselves in water even when there was no need to enter it.

I, too, was one of them.

IX

I resolved to devote myself entirely to training not to wet my feet.
Downstream of the Tōkaidō railway bridge lay a shallow deep pool.
Whether in deep or shallow waters, hooking ayu in deep pools would not go well without undergoing some training.

I was well acquainted with this spot’s conditions and had already achieved results through two or three friend fishing attempts.
Thereupon, I decided to fish from rocks near the water’s edge alongside my daughter, taking care not to wet our feet.

This was the first day my daughter had ever held a friend fishing rod.
While crucian carp fishing demands several lessons to grasp, ayu fishing starts right here with these fundamentals.
Before letting her hold the rod, I instructed her on the essentials of friend fishing.
“Today is your initiation.”
“The ayu’s habits; how to maneuver the decoy ayu; the trade-offs of rod length; line thickness and thinness; presence or absence of sinkers; the decoy’s vigor; current speed; water depth; size of riverbed stones; water scum buildup; water purity; weather; time; season; upper, middle, or lower reaches; whether others have already fished the spot; teeth marks left by ayu on algae-coated rocks; air temperature; deep pool or rapid; head of the rapid or trailing light; drop-offs; swirling white foam; rock shadows; gravel beds; bedrock; pre-flood or post-flood conditions; fishing spots along the rapid’s edge or at the current’s heart; how to keep decoy ayu lively; windy days; rainy days—these factors are countless—too many to enumerate.”
“You must thoroughly digest and synthesize various conditions, blend them seamlessly into your mind, avoid fixating on logic, and master adaptability to diverse situations when confronting ayu and water—but if you begin with such rudimentary instruction, you’ll never truly fish.”

“Consider yourself a marionette,” I said. “In all matters, maneuver the rod exactly as your father instructs and move your body. There must be no selfish intent there. That is to say, you must not mix your own ingenuity into the methods I have taught. Be mindless.”

Having delivered this instruction, I prepared the rod, line, hooks, and other gear for her. Long rods are ill-advised for girls. From a rod measuring four ken*, one shaku**, and five sun***, I removed two base sections to make it three ken long. The main line was made seven or eight sun**** longer than the rod’s length.

*1 ken ≈ 1.818 meters
**1 shaku ≈ 30.3 centimeters
***1 sun ≈ 3.03 centimeters
****sun: traditional Japanese unit (~3 cm)

This shallow deep pool’s fishing spot, according to my estimation, measured about three shaku in depth. Thereupon, I attached a marker made of white bird feathers at a point four shaku above the hook.

After securing the decoy ayu to the hook, I had my daughter hold the rod—the angle from around her waist toward the sky at forty-five degrees was considered appropriate. She had to maintain the rod tip’s position so that the marker tied to the main line four shaku above the decoy ayu remained constantly one sun above the water’s surface. Since this fishing spot was an extremely gentle deep pool, I attached no sinker. With this method, water resistance against the main line became minimal and confined to a narrow range, leaving the decoy ayu lightly burdened. Thus unencumbered, the decoy ayu swam freely along the riverbed as though released into wild currents.

When it darted about across the stones below, she was to let it roam unrestrained—never checking its movements nor imposing control. Keeping this mindset of granting playfulness to the decoy ayu allowed her body to shift upstream or downstream with its path.

However, in such cases, you must never allow any change to the marker’s position one sun above the water’s surface.
As long as you do not forget this, the decoy ayu will move freely and the river ayu will surely challenge it.
“And [the river ayu] will likely become caught on the sharp hook attached to your decoy ayu’s tail.”

X

Having finished speaking, I told my daughter this would suffice.
My daughter assumed the posture exactly as I had instructed, positioned the rod at a forty-five-degree angle toward the sky, and set its placement so that the marker fluttered about one inch above the water’s surface—whereupon the decoy ayu, just as I had predicted, first lurched offshore before swimming freely upstream and downstream in every direction.

From behind my daughter, pulled by the decoy ayu’s movements along the main line, I paid deep attention to the white marker’s subtle dance as it darted back and forth across the water’s surface.
Then, when barely two or three minutes had passed since my daughter thrust the rod into the water, I detected an abnormality in the marker’s sway.
Through years of experience, I knew an ayu in the deep pool had pursued the decoy and been pierced by the hook somewhere on its body.

“Well now, don’t you feel some subtle change in sensation through your rod-holding hand?”

I asked my daughter.

“Right.”
“Now that you mention it, I do feel a slight subtle change coming through from the rod tip.”

My daughter was still earnestly focusing her mind on the marker’s movement.

“That’s right.”
“The ayu’s already hooked.”
“Lift the rod tip about a foot higher.”

When the rod tip was raised about a foot, sure enough, the ayu dashed offshore with fierce momentum.
This was the sign that the ayu hooked on the line, stimulated by the tension of the main line, had begun its escape.
At this point, my daughter could no longer keep holding the rod.
If she pulled back too hard, the thin main line would snap with the slightest jolt.
If she swung the rod gently, the rod would threaten to be wrested from her grasp.
With only a few experiences in crucian carp fishing, it was only natural that one could not possibly manage the force of a July ayu caught on a friend fishing hook.

My daughter trembled her arms, face muscles tensed, eyes strained wide, mouth working soundlessly to convey something to me—but no voice emerged from her throat.

I took the rod from my daughter’s hands. Then, quietly raising the rod and gradually handling it with care, I drew it toward myself and lowered the hooked ayu into the hand net. A little over seven sun in length, I estimated it to be around thirty-five momme.

Ayu in deep pools, upon being hooked, sense a slight impulse through the marker—unlike ayu in rapids, which dart downstream at speeds even a man’s legs couldn’t match the moment they’re hooked. They do not flee far from where they were hooked, swimming calmly alongside the decoy as though oblivious to the hook’s bite—but once the rod is lifted and tension applied to the main line, they startle into a frenzy. Therein lies the subtle charm of friend fishing in deep pools.

After carefully sharpening the hook and replacing it with a new decoy, I passed the rod back to my daughter.
As before, she stood at the water’s edge—rod angled at forty-five degrees, marker hovering one sun above the surface—maintaining this form with mindless rigor.
Another struck at once.

Once again, I took the rod from my daughter and lowered the hooked ayu into the hand net.
In this way, within barely an hour, my daughter had hooked seven or eight impressive ayu.
For some time now, there had been three or four anglers fishing in this deep pool.
For some reason, not a single fish was caught on their hooks.
In this deep pool, there were numerous ayu.
They were well aware of this fact, yet perhaps these were people without much profound knowledge regarding friend fishing in deep pools.

Those people had been watching us father and daughter—my daughter busily fishing and me busily netting the catches—but eventually three or four of them set their rods down on the riverbank, gathered near us, crouched onto the sand, and began observing our fishing.

Exhausted, I was taking a break when people gathered around me, and one of them asked, “Are you Mr. Koseki?”
When I answered that it was, he exclaimed in admiration repeatedly, “I see! As expected—even your daughter...”
One of those marveling was a face I had seen once or twice at some fishing spot.

Eleven

As noon approached, I decided to return to the inn for a meal.
So I said to my daughter, “You may have hooked around ten by now.”
“But you must understand—the ayu you caught today weren’t taken through your own experience or skill.”
“Now here’s the question: why would deep-pool ayu bite so eagerly for a true beginner lacking both?”
“It’s because you were a puppet.”
“When a rod-bearing marionette moves its audience exactly as the puppeteer wills, we say the doll has absorbed its master’s spirit and technique.”
“You wielded tools fit for these deep pools and followed my teachings without deviation—no trace of self in your rod work. That’s why they bit.”
“Though our bodies differ, your will and technique in fishing became one with mine.”
“It was no different from your father catching them himself.”

“However, when your father’s eyes leave your fishing posture, the river ayu will mysteriously cease attacking the decoy.”
“In other words, you won’t catch any.”
“It is because when my eyes leave you, you return to your own mind and your own fishing posture.”
“Your own mind and your own fishing posture—these point to your true nature as a genuine beginner in friend fishing.”
“Regarding friend fishing, true beginners cannot catch a single fish in this deep pool.”
“But you cannot always keep Father by your side as your instructor in the future.”
“Today I strictly restricted your freedom in every motion—whether raising or lowering the rod or taking a single step—but from now on, use today’s instruction as your foundation. Apply your ingenuity, talent, and judgment freely as you please when fishing.”

“There, what you’ll come to feel is how this matter of your own contrivances, cleverness, and calculations becomes an arduous craft that demands grinding your very mind to dust.”
“With friend fishing, the more you layer on your own devices, the fewer fish you’ll catch.”
“The deeper you delve into study, the more this path’s abyss presses upon your bones—just as a ballplayer striving to connect falls into temporary slump, so too arrives the day when friend fishing’s art slips wholly beyond your power to command.”

And after piling effort upon effort through ten or twenty years of training, what will come back around to you is this very puppet’s fishing posture—the one your father taught today by taking your hand and restraining your heart.
"In the end," I said through her trembling grip on the rod still damp from morning catches,
"you return to that mindless state you were born with."
Only then does friend fishing’s skill become truly yours.
"Never forget these words."

This was not limited to the solitary path of angling alone.
All life’s roads followed this same course.
In art or religion, scholarship or commerce, martial discipline or governance—in every field, one must spend years honing craft and ingenuity, wearing down flesh and bone to survive this world.
The world refused to conform to the simplicity we imagine in our schoolroom dreams.
Some might succumb to self-doubt; others might rail against existence itself.
Yet within this relentless chiseling lay progress.
And when one reached a certain age, only those who had never faltered in their daily striving would find the master-sage’s form they once glimpsed in childhood’s heart returning to dwell within their very bones.

My father’s friend, the novelist Ibuse Masuji, once remarked that no matter how many years one toils to refine their writing, it ultimately returns to the poetic elegance of Matsuo Bashō.
He had made this remark.
“Fishing and life are the same.
You must never forget, throughout your life, the mindless posture you assumed today at the edge of the Fuji River.”

Twelve

In mid-August of that year, I once again took my daughter along for friend fishing.
It was because I wanted to let her experience the distinctive charm of angling in Echigo’s Uono River.

My son had already thoroughly mastered the fishing grounds of the Uono River near Urasa Village in Minami-Uonuma District, Echigo Province, so I thought to acquaint my daughter with the fishing areas centered on Koiide in Kita-Uonuma District. As it happened, Nakajima Gosaku, the venerable angling sage of the Izu Kano River, had also arrived at that time, so the three of us—myself, my daughter, and him—spent about a week happily fishing our way around various spots.

Finally, I took my daughter to an area near the Yuyama weir in Echigo Kawaguchi Town, about one ri upstream from where the Uono River joins the Shinano River.
On this day, I resolved to cease all interference with my daughter’s fishing and let her act entirely as she wished. For I thought that only then would she come to understand how thoroughly the skill of friend fishing defies half-hearted effort.

Old Man Nakajima and I hooked many fish now and then.
However, for my daughter—now liberated from instructional constraints—the results were so poor that one could say almost no fish were hooked from morning onward.
Even when a fish was occasionally hooked, in the rocky rapids with steep gradients, it would not commit to the strike.
Each time a fish was hooked, the main line would snap along with the decoy.

Since that spot was the rapids upstream of the railway bridge connecting Kawaguchi Town to Tokamachi, in the afternoon I guided her to the deep pools downstream of the weir. There was a fishing spot whose conditions closely resembled those of the deep pools downstream of the railway bridge on the Fuji River. My daughter faced the fishing spot with the same rod, main line, hook, and marker setup she had used at the Fuji River, but unless her father’s heart flowed through the rod she held, the river’s ayu seemed unwilling to take the bait.

But while she persevered desperately, a large fish took her bait. The moment it happened, the main line snapped with a pop, and along with the decoy ayu, vanished somewhere. My daughter was on the verge of tears.

The Uono River originated from a valley between the western slopes of Mogura-dake along the Echigo-Kozuke provincial border and the hinterland mountains of Tanigawa-dake and Mantaro-san.
Flowing northward through southern Echigo’s gorges with a pale shimmer for twenty ri, it merged with the great Shinano River at this estuary.
Though merely a tributary, its water volume surpassed even that of the Sagami River near Atsugi.
I considered its crystalline currents superior to those of the finest Komata River.

In the upstream areas around Tsuchitaru and Nakazato, the river still formed a gorge where fishing was limited to yamame and iwana, but when one descended to Yuzawa Onsen, they released natural ayu transported from Teradomari weir.
As one progressed downstream through Ishiuchi and Shiozawa toward the midstream, the ayu grew larger and the river’s width expanded.
The landscape here was also grand.
Overhead, Nakagatake—a 6,500-shaku peak barricading the Echigo-Kozuke provincial border—loomed like a folding screen, while northward, Hakkai-san and Echigo Komagatake maintained their majestic procession.
When the start of autumn arrived, the air atop the mountain peaks and in the mountain villages grew clear, and the sky became ever loftier.
Even if one called Pacific Japan’s early autumn skies refreshing, haze lingered somewhere in the heavens.
However, in Echigo’s early autumn air, not a speck of dust’s settling could be seen.
It resonated with the early autumn air of Manchuria.

When the Mikuni River joined at Muikamachi’s edge, the Uono River suddenly mixed in high-quality rock masses, its waters grew abundant, and as it flowed onward to Urasa and Koiide Town, it began to take on the appearance of a great river.
When the Hakkama River joined at Koiide Town’s edge, the riverbed stones grew even larger, the rapids’ flow quickened further, and the ayu thrived under ideal conditions.

From the wide gravel bank abounding in autumn grasses at the confluence of the Hakkama and Uono Rivers, the vista of mountains to the southeast was truly beautiful and majestic.
Hakkai-san, Komagatake, and Nakagatake—closer to Oku-Aizu—formed a triangular silhouette that spoke of the mountains’ coolness.
If one shifted their gaze to the mountain ranges around Ginzan-daira, Rokujūrigoe, and Hachijūrigoe, even while on a journey, the traveler’s heart was further stirred with wanderlust.

Between Horinouchi and Kawaguchi, in two or three rough rapids along that stretch, dwelled ayu so large they could rightly be called the finest along the entire Uono River.
Their form was plump and large.
Their aroma was rich.
Their flavor was excellent.
Particularly along the Uono River, from its upper to lower reaches, rice production remains abundant.
It is also blessed with mellow sake, my greatest delight.

This year, as we welcomed the first ayu fishing season liberated from the capricious war, I ardently wished to once again accompany my son and daughter to this Uono River and spend a summer in joy.