Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

In days past, relying on my pestle-handle skills, I would scorn any precipitous peak as nothing special and climb mountains in boots as they were, without even rolling up my Western-style trousers—in other words, with no particular travel preparations whatsoever. Yet while my spirit alone remained as of old, the strength of this body, reduced to ruin through ten years of self-neglect, was no longer what it once had been.
With even knee joint pain occurring so frequently—Ah, have I already grown old? Can I no longer climb high mountains?—I sighed to myself; but no—I was not yet of an age to be decrepit.
If I trained myself, I would become as I once was.
Even if I didn’t become as I once was, I should reach eighty percent of my former self—especially if I wore gaiters and straw sandals, rolled up my trousers, and eased the strain on my knee joints. Then the pain likely wouldn’t occur. And even if it did start to flare up, by being cautious and cooling them with water, I could avoid it altogether.
Once I resolved, “Very well, I shall give it a try,” nothing could hold me back.
Especially with the crisp air and lofty skies of Indian summer—an ideal season.
The resolve to travel is harder than gold or iron.
As for destinations, such things are trivial matters.
There’s no need to make arbitrary selections.
However, I roughly settled on the Usui and Myōgi areas.
I intended to utilize a five-day discount ticket.

With no rigid restrictions like having to catch a certain train by a certain hour or arrive at my destination by a set time, my mind felt wonderfully unburdened.
At Yotsuya Mitsuke, when attempting to transfer from the streetcar line to the Outer Moat Line, the tram arrived late.
The crowd awaiting its arrival steadily grew.
The working people, bound by morning time constraints, all wore uneasy expressions as they stared fixedly in the direction from which the tram would come.
The tram finally came into view.
Perhaps thinking he wouldn’t be able to board if he waited with the crowd, a literary scholar whose face I recognized attempted to leap onto the tram before it had even stopped. Though his hands managed to grab hold, his legs failed to follow, leaving him dragged along for a time until finally being hauled up by the conductor.
In their haste as working souls, that someone would resort to such farcical acts struck me as pitiable.
I had resolved to take the next tram if I couldn’t board, but seeing there seemed to be space, I got on—and not just space, but enough to even sit down.

At Ueno Station I waited over an hour; then waited another hour transferring at Takasaki Station; alighted at Matsuida Station; walked over one ri; arrived at Myōgi Town as the sun set; and lodged at Tōunkan Inn.

Counting on my fingers revealed it had been eighteen years. With only a meager sum in my pocket when I came to Myōgi from Nikkō through Ashio and Mount Kōshin, I had barely five sen left. Not only was there no means to hire a guide, but I couldn't even secure lunch. From those five sen, I spent two to buy cheap sweets that served as my midday meal. That candy shop stood on the left side directly facing the shrine. Now, eighteen years later when I returned, the building still remained. The selection of inexpensive sweets being sold seemed no different from before.

Though my original plan had been just a single overnight stay to view the autumn foliage at Myōgi and Usui, I was under no obligation to return by any set date. Though my purse weighed on my mind, if I sent a telegram, things would work out somehow. During my previous visit—without a guide—I had turned back at Large Character Rock on Mount Hakuun and only seen the stone gates of Mount Kintō. It was nothing more than an ordinary sightseeing trip.

This time, having hired a guide to fully appreciate the sights and resolved to conquer the summits of all three peaks—Mount Hakuun, Mount Kintō, and Mount Kinkei—he first passed through the stone gates to ascend Mount Kintō’s highest point; turned his steps to climb Mount Kinkei’s summit; on the following day scaled Mount Hakuun’s peak; in the afternoon ventured alone to the stone gates; the day after that returned again to the stone gates; on yet another day journeyed to Mount Hakuun’s rear peaks; once more reached its summit; pressed onward to scale Tengu Peak; and advanced further still to conquer Sōma Peak.

Mount Myōgi was the collective name for three peaks: Mount Hakuun, Mount Kintō, and Mount Kinkei.
Of these, Mount Hakuun stood highest, followed by Mount Kintō.
Mount Kinkei remained lowest.
The height of Mount Hakuun measured approximately 3,800 shaku above sea level.
Though unanimously acclaimed as Japan’s foremost strange mountain, Mount Myōgi resembled less a mountain than an immense rock formation—a thing of geological grandeur and bizarre extraordinariness.
From Takasaki’s vicinity they revealed only their crests above fragmentary peaks until nearing Isobe brought all three into gradual view.
Between Isobe and Matsuida one saw them forming a triangular silhouette one or two ri distant to the left—Mount Hakuun on the right flanking Mount Kinkei leftward with Mount Kintō central.
Crossing Usui River from Matsuida up steep foothills brought travelers face-to-face with Mount Hakuun’s bulk while beholding Mount Kintō and Kinkei leftward and catching distant glimpses of towering Mount Asama rightward.
First Asama vanished from sight then Kintō disappeared until finally Kinkei too was lost.
Reaching slope’s end at Black Gate revealed what once stretched as Myōgi’s residential quarter now dwindled to mere dozens of houses.
Through Gunma Prefectural Assembly’s Meiji 23 [1890] resolution abolishing licensed prostitution statewide lingered two or three brothel remnants here—buildings still defying ordinary appearance decades later.
This vicinity offered prime vantage for viewing Mount Hakuun’s majesty.

When viewed from this area, Mount Hakuun possessed both considerable height and breadth. It rose sharply, majestic in momentum and precipitous in form. Above the seventh or eighth station, massive rocks—as if carved—jutted out unevenly; though once bearing trees, now completely denuded of leaves, the mountain’s skeletal frame grew ever more exposed. Below the rocks, the autumn foliage was now at its peak. Evergreen trees also mingled among them, preventing monotony. Mid-slope held a solitary rock, upon whose surface the character 'Dai' appeared in white. This was called Large Character Rock. The 'Dai' character could be seen even from the Nakasendō road one ri away.

II

The Tōunkan Inn where I lodged stood at the uppermost tier of dwellings.
The basins of the Kabura and Usui Rivers spread out beneath my feet; to the right stretched the Chichibu mountain range, and to the left rose Mount Akagi.
Ahead, at the farthest reaches of the Kantō Plain, Mount Tsukuba stood solitary.
The view from the upper floor could indeed be called splendid!

When I rose early and opened the door, night had lifted but the sun had yet to rise.
From the Chichibu mountain range across to the Kantō Plain above, save for a single band of black clouds stretched horizontally, not a wisp of cloud remained.
The eastern sky had begun to take on a faint red hue, which gradually deepened into crimson.
The band of clouds that had appeared black suddenly turned crimson, as if a vast brocade curtain had been drawn across the heavens.
A great crimson sun leapt forth from within that curtain.
A sunrise is a sight that pierces the eyes no matter when one beholds it.

Today, I first made for Mount Kintō.
Turning left before Myōgi Shrine, I proceeded along the mountainside for about ten chō until reaching a cedar grove, where the slope turned downward.
This area is called Akasaka.
Having come here, I saw the entire peak of Mount Kinkei for the first time.
I also caught sight of a couple of Mount Kintō’s peaks.
The view toward Mount Hakuun to the right was unfavorable.
After four or five chō, I arrived at a vineyard.
When I drank what had been prepared in a bottle as a substitute for tea, it tasted sweet with a tangy undertone.
When I asked what it was, they said it was plum wine.
It was brewed from plums.
They also brewed grape wine and sold it.

This place was surrounded by the three mountains of Hakuun, Kintō, and Kinkei.
When viewed from this area, Mount Hakuun resolved itself into roughly three rocky peaks.
To the right lay Mount Hakuun's main peak; in the center rose Tengu Peak; to the left stood Sōma Peak.
The remaining ridge of Tengu Peak formed Drum Rock on the mountainside, split thinly sideways into Shoji Rock, and clustered at the lowest point to become Shōjō Rock.
At the point where Sōma’s remaining ridge sought to meet Kinkei, there stood a single cedar that caught the eye.
Mount Kintō appeared on the remaining ridge of Sōma, exposing more than half its mountainside.
Reaching the foothills, I ascended a slope of about four or five chō.
This was called Seven Bends.
When I finished climbing, the first thing that caught my eye was a hole in one of Mount Kinkei’s peaks.
This was called Wind Hole.
When viewed earlier from Akasaka, Mount Kinkei had appeared as a single continuous range, but seen from here, countless rocky peaks overlapped, transforming the mountain’s form entirely.
A massive rock stood isolated like a bamboo shoot.
This was called Hittō Rock.
A single rock stood like a person; from the upper right side, a branch rock emerged to stand alongside.
This was called Child-Bearing Rock.
A helmet-like massive rock was called Kabuto Rock.
A small rock resembling a person was called Daikoku Rock.
When I reached the single cedar, Mount Kinkei revealed only Hittō Rock.
From this, one could grasp how thin and flat Mount Kinkei truly was.

This spot served as both the meeting point of Mount Kinkei, Mount Hakuun, and Mount Kintō and a mountain pass. When I looked back, Mount Hakuun rose close by to the left, while ahead in the distance stretched Mount Akagi, Mount Nikkō, and the mountains of the three provinces. When I looked ahead, the mountain ranges of Kō, Musashi, and Shin provinces overlapped one another. Among them, what particularly caught my eye were Kurotaki and Arafune. Kurotaki bore strange rocks across its summit ridges; Arafune resembled a massive overturned ship. On the peak opposite Hittō Rock stood a boulder pressing down on its head—they called it Tōrō Rock. There existed a thatched shop selling tea. Beside the single cedar remained two half-burned torii pillars. When I asked how they had burned, they explained that in Meiji 15 [1882], a wildfire ignited in Hatchi—a place four or five ri distant in Shinshū—and intensified by gales, had scorched several ri of mountain wilderness over three days and nights, claiming not a few human and animal lives. Finally reaching this torii, they said it had halted here. What stroke of fortune had spared this single cedar alone among so many great trees from the flames?

After walking several dozen ken and looking back, the rock that resembled a lantern had changed form; two rocks stood connected with a hole between them, called Meoto Rock.
Extending along the rocky ridge were numerous bizarre formations.
One resembling an upright sword was called Nakadate Rock; another resembling Ebisu was named Ebisu Rock.
After proceeding several dozen ken more, a massive rock to the right stood like an upright folding screen; they called it Byōbu Rock.
The rock’s midsection dipped slightly inward, its base forming a slope.
As I crawled upward, at its apex lay a depression shaped like the hand-washing basins found at shrines and temples—a hole about three inches wide brimming with water that perhaps seeped from within the rock. When I dipped my hand in, the water reached up to my elbow.
They call it Scholar Sugawara’s Inkstone Water.
Circling around Byōbu Rock and turning left, I finally reached the First Stone Gate.

Sakkyokuzan’s description of the stone gate as “A gate that is a mountain, a mountain that is stone” was aptly put. When viewed from the side, it was a thin, flat massive rock barely over ten shaku wide; yet when seen from the front, its shape resembled a lamp-shaped arch, with the hole’s form roughly matching it. The hole measured nine jō in height and eight jō in width, while the entire rock likely spanned twelve jō in width and ten jō in height. As a stone gate, it was truly unparalleled under heaven. I entered the gate, climbed onto a rock to rest, lit my tobacco pipe, and sat facing the stone gate. The cliff extending from behind to the right was called Misogi Rock. To the left rose a massive rock that pierced the heavens—the Second Stone Gate—though from this vantage point its aperture remained unseen. Through the First Gate’s opening I could see nearby Byōbu Rock’s flank and jagged bizarre formations beyond. On that same rocky ridge lay a round stone they called Mirror Rock. To Byōbu Rock’s right stood a single cedar visible alongside Mount Kinkei’s edge and Jōshū’s sprawling plain below. “The view of the full moon rising from here,” remarked the guide, “is truly matchless.”

After several dozen steps, I reached the Second Stone Gate.
I traversed sideways along iron chains at Crab’s Sideways Crawl, clung to chains to squeeze through a hole, then descended via chains at Well Bucket Descent.
This gate proved somewhat difficult both to ascend and descend.
Above the First Stone Gate and aligned in the same direction stood an entire rock formation that surpassed its predecessor in grandeur yet fell far short as a gate.
The rock leaned to one side with a bored-through hole.
Vertically elongated at four jō high and one-and-a-half jō wide, its crescent moon shape suggested it should be called a hole rather than a gate.
Looking back revealed Misogi Rock and beyond it a great cliff wall—Kai Rock.
In their fissure lay Gen Rock.
Drum Rock stood to my right.
Ahead rose a brush-like monolith piercing skyward—Giant Candle Rock.
Beneath it lay its smaller twin—Small Candle Rock.
Upon Giant Candle Rock towered an even larger solitary boulder—Komusō Rock.
Looking upward beyond these formations revealed Fourth Stone Gate.
Beyond that stood Takemikazuchi Rock,
and further still stretched Tengu Plateau’s elongated rocks.

The field of vision was narrower than at the First Stone Gate, dim yet strange.

I descended the Well Bucket Descent, then descended the One-Handed Descent, climbed for a time, turned left, and arrived at the Third Stone Gate.
The hole measured eight shaku in height and one jō and two shaku in width, forming a semicircular shape.
The entire rock’s shape resembled this as well—thin and flat.
When I looked back, there was no view.
When I looked ahead, between the cliff walls stood a huge rock that appeared poised to leap.
It is called Lion Rock.
This stone gate, if relocated to another mountain, would have been considered splendid; yet situated as it was between the First and Fourth Stone Gates, it became utterly ordinary.

Changing direction, I climbed a short way and reached the Fourth Stone Gate.
The hole of this gate was said to measure eight jō in height and nine jō three shaku in width, though its height likely did not reach eight jō.
The entire rock corresponded to the shape of the hole—if one were to liken it, akin to a person kneeling with knees and elbows planted.
It was a thin and flat rock.
The right pillar of the gate could be circled.
When I stood at the southern end, both the First and Second Gates lay at my feet.
Looking up, I saw the three peaks of Kintō scraping the sky.
Looking ahead from within the gate, the elongated rocks of Tengu Plateau sprawled before me.
The leftmost end was Turtle Rock.
The rightmost end was Yurugi Rock.
In the middle stood a long, narrow stone that required a slight upward gaze; this was called Cannon Rock.
Though countless rocks in Mount Myōgi had gained names through formal resemblance, when I remarked that only this Cannon Rock appeared to truly match its name in both title and substance, the guide said, “It originally had no name—this one acquired it since the Sino-Japanese War.”

After trudging down and climbing a short way, I found Takemikazuchi Rock before me.
When I shifted slightly rightward, I peered into the valley bottom through a fissure between two boulders.
Turning back to advance further brought me face-to-face with a massive rock blocking the path.
To the left lay impassable terrain; to my right gaped a thousand-ren chasm.
The guide explained: "This was once called Ant's Crossing, but after Count Kuroda Kiyotaka visited years ago and froze in terror here unable to proceed, we now call it Kuroda's Weeping Rock."
Legends cling like ivy—Kōbō for wisdom, Benkei for valor, Komachi for beauty—attaching themselves wherever they may.
Had this been antiquity, they'd have named it Benkei's Return Rock; that it bears Kuroda's title instead testifies to how his formidable reputation once commanded an era.
During my earlier visit there had been no iron chains—now their presence made crossing no particular trial.
Gripping those chains anew, I stood upon Tengu Plateau's elongated rocks.
To my left stretched a precarious span—one shaku wide, four or five long—with valleys yawning on both sides.
They call this Tōsankyō Bridge.
Continuing straight ahead brought me to relatively level ground.
This was Tengu Plateau.
Ahead rose rocks forming what they term the Small Stone Gate.
Its opening bears the name *Tainai-gakure*.
The entire formation constitutes Turtle Rock.
Retracing my steps southward along the same rocky vein brought me to Daimon Rock.
Pressing onward would have taken me to Yurugi Rock.
These elongated formations resembled nothing so much as a razor's edge.
Yet another such rocky spine stretched beyond.

A thread of a path wound through this narrow space.
The area above bore the name Tengu Council Grounds.
I found proceeding beyond this point impossible.
Ahead lay Kagami-ishi's elongated rock formation, yet it scarcely hindered the view—through gaps in the stone, I could still glimpse the plains of Jōshū stretching beyond.
The areas around Takemikazuchi Rock, those encompassing Tengu Plateau, and this stretch containing Tengu Council Grounds stood at roughly equal heights, clustered close together with views of similar grandeur—yet among them, Tengu Council Grounds reigned supreme.
Retracing my steps past the Fourth Gate, I bypassed the Third and Second Gates entirely, returning straight to the First Gate.
The distance from First Stone Gate to Tengu Council Grounds measured no more than five or six chō.
This valley bore the designation Eastern Mountain of Kintō.
The finest vistas crowned Tengu Plateau's vicinity, followed by those at the Fourth Gate and First Gate respectively—a triumvirate dubbed the Three Views of the Eastern Mountain.
Strange rocks and bizarre peaks stood arrayed before and behind, to left and right—my eyes struggled to take them all in.
The strangest of strange formations, weirdest of weird contours—utterly without parallel in all creation.

The wonders of the Eastern Mountain had reached their zenith.

I now aimed to advance toward the Western Mountain.

III

What are called Western Mountain and Eastern Mountain are in fact valleys nestled on Kintō's mountainside.
Boundary Rock naturally formed a divide, with stone gates clustered in the east and Asahidake standing isolated in the west.
Passing through the First Gate and circling Misogi Rock, the ground widened slightly and became level.
There was a shrine office backed by the mountain, its front open.
I looked up at nearby Asahidake.
The shrine was called Nakadake Shrine.
It was originally called Take-mikazuchi Ōgongen.
It had enshrined Yamato Takeru and separately enshrined Daikokuten, but since the mixing of Shinto and Buddhism was prohibited, it presumably became Ōkuninushi no Mikoto.
Passing in front of the shrine office and coming to a dead end, there was a Daikoku shrine.
If one turned right in front of it and ascended the stone steps, there was the Takemikazuchi Shrine.
Asahidake immediately pressed down upon the shrine, towering sharply to pierce the heavens.
The front could not be climbed.
Circling to the left revealed a monument to Dōshi Chōsei.
Here had lived a noble recluse.
Tsuzura Rock rose up, its rocky vein connecting to Asahidake.
Kurakake Rock and Horagai Rock existed within this rocky vein.
Emerging onto the rocky vein from between Tsuzura and Kurakake Rocks, if one turned right, there stood a stone shrine.
A slender stone blocked the path.
It was called Nishisankyō Bridge.

Though similar to Tōsankyō Bridge, here it lay about one shaku lower.
With about one shaku of space on both sides, there was no sense of danger whatsoever.
It was a bridge of the same kind.
“Yet while anyone can cross this bridge,” the guide remarked meaningfully, “not a few find themselves too fearful to traverse Tōsankyō.”
When I climbed through Higezori Rock, an iron ladder hung fastened.
Iron chains clung to the stone.
Though iron chains abound throughout Mount Myōgi’s peaks, one could ascend and descend all areas even without them.
Only here did they prove insufficient.
I concluded that attempting the climb without even those chains would be a life-risking endeavor.
As I ascended further, a rounded stone path became necessary.
Here too hung iron chains.
East, west, south, north—no matter which way I turned, there was no escape.
“Years ago,” the guide said, “an army officer named Momochi-riki performed a handstand here—thus we call this Momochi-riki Rock.”
“Proceed straight ahead,” he added, “and you’ll reach Asahidake’s summit.”
A one- or two-tsubo flat area spread before me: pines flourished while the Toshiyō had withered.
Though I had recorded only peaks and rocks until now, Myōgi’s three mountains bore vegetation even at their summits.
Rocks too carried trees.
Most were deciduous, though scattered pines could be seen.
The autumn foliage here shone splendidly.
Near the vineyard too blazed splendid colors.

However, none could compare to the vicinity of Mount Hakuun's Large Character Rock. Even here, I must still speak of the rocks. The field of vision was broader than that of the Eastern Mountain. Facing Mount Kintō's main peak—counting from the left stood Nishidaikoku Rock, Tsuzura Rock, and Sennin Rock; turning to the right rose Hachijō Rock, Daibutsu Rock, Toriwashi Rock, Futami Rock, Higashidaikoku Rock and other named formations—yet there were also numerous unnamed strange rocks. The countless strange rocks throughout Mount Myōgi—though names had been forced upon them through shape resemblances—were mostly nonsense. They could be recorded or left unrecorded. Yet Mount Hakuun's Large Character Rock, Kintō's Pinnacle Rock, Kintō's Four Gates, Tengudai, and Asahidake—try though one might to forget them, they cannot be forgotten.

When I looked up, the three peaks of Kintō stood towering and high!
Myōgi, Haruna, and Akagi are called the three famous mountains of Jōshū.
Within Myōgi, there are three further peaks: Hakuun, Kintō, and Kinkei.
Mount Kintō also has three peaks: Higashihondake to the right, Nishihondake to the left, and Nakadake in the center.
Nakadake can be climbed.
When I asked how many hours the round trip would require, they replied that two hours would suffice.
Now, I would ascend.

I descended with Tsuzura Rock to my left and ascended with Hachijō Rock to my right.
The path was steep.
From around the eighth station, cliff walls rose abruptly, leaving no way to ascend from the front.
Circling left to climb the rock, I traversed a razor-like ridge.
In two spots, I clung to iron chains.
Aided by rock edges, tree roots, and branches, I finally reached the summit.
Nearby to the north, I gazed up at Mount Asama.
Yatsugatake stood out conspicuously with its mantle of snow.
The air was clear, without a single cloud marring the sky.
Though mountains stretched as far as the eye could reach in every direction, this peak still stood too low for viewing Mount Fuji.
To this side of Asama lay Nakagiyama, its bones laid bare and giving rise to countless strange rocks upon its ridges.
Autumn foliage filled the valley between Nakagi and Kintō in full splendor.
While Myōgi's foliage leaned more toward yellow hues, here red dominated overwhelmingly.

The view from the mountaintop was as I had anticipated, but I had never imagined that such beauty in the autumn foliage would exist here.

I returned to the shrine office, drank sake, and ate a meal.

Now I prepared to depart from Kintō and set my course toward Kinkei. As I made ready to leave, allow me one final remark. The three peaks of Myōgi—each one paper-thin mountains, mere rock formations. Their profusion of stone gates naturally attested to this frailty. Kintō particularly abounded with stone gates. Beyond the four main gates lay a star cavern said to measure ten jō in height and nine jō in width. There was a hole claimed to have been pierced by Minister Yuriwaka’s arrow, reported as five jō high and two jō wide. These two great gates could be glimpsed from afar along the Nakasendō road at Mount Usui’s base. Some thirty chō from the shrine office brought one to their foundations. Nine small stone gates stood enumerated: Higashitainai Cave, Meotoiwa Cave, Hachimusu Cave, Toriwashi Cave, Ugokiiwa Cave, Tsuzumiga Cave, Shikato Cave, Awaiwa Cave, and Nishitainai Cave—such were their names. Tamaaya Waterfall was said to measure ten jō in height, though its bed typically lay dry. To have expected even waterfalls from Mount Myōgi was pure avarice.

IV

Traveling through the valley between Kintō and Kinkei and crossing one mountain pass brought one to the eastern foot of Mount Kinkei.
There stood Ontake Shinsha Shrine.
A thatched house selling tea stood there.
The guide said, “The round trip to the summit can be made in two hours.”
Climbing a short way revealed a life-sized copper statue.
The guide explained, “This is the copper statue of Nakazawa Komakichi, a priest of Ontake Shrine who opened this mountain path.”
“His fourth-generation descendant still serves as a priest to this day.”
As we climbed higher, we encountered a copper Buddha—Fudō Myōō.
A copper statue attired in court robes stood nearby; the guide indicated: “This is Waka Shrine.”
The path led through the ridge.
Numerous stone Buddhas and deities lined the way.
Stones marking mountain stations had been erected.
Passing Hotate Rock and reaching the seven-and-a-half station brought us to jagged crags forming a fifty- to sixty-degree slope.
The rock surface bristled with wart-like protrusions.
They called it Crab’s Four-Legged Crawl.
Climbers grasped these stony growths with hands and feet to ascend.
The principles, tears, and chivalrous spirit found in humankind were akin to these stone protrusions.
If one became too shrewd in worldly matters and overly cunning, ultimately nothing could be done.
A terrifying stretch—where both looking up and down induced dread—continued for over a chō.
To the left lay what they called Dry Waterfall—cascade-shaped yet waterless; to the right loomed a thousand-fathom precipice. Whichever way one turned meant certain death—a place dubbed Horseback Ridge Crossing.

Crossing Dry Waterfall to the left, then ascending Horseback Ridge, passing Cheek Shave, traversing the mountain gorge bridge, and proceeding through Beard Shave—only then did I finally reach the summit.
There was a stone shrine.
Proceeding further west, I saw a vineyard spread out below my feet.
The peril was twice that of Kintō yet yielded an inferior view.
What distinguished this vista lay solely in framing together Hakuun and Kintō’s twin peaks.
I stood gazing awhile—sat smoking tobacco—then lay supine surrendering to reverie.
The sun blazed warm overhead.
“Here upon this summit,” thought I, “nothing now surpasses my height.” Yet glancing skyward revealed a swarm of minute insects dancing several feet above me—when asked their name came the reply: “Midges.”
“Not kin to biting gnats?” I pressed.
“Biting gnats sting,” came the answer. “These do not.”
Westward sank the sun; its light vaulted shadowed valleys to bathe distant hills.
When standing erect I overtop these mountains by five or six feet.
Yet to cast my shadow upon yonder slopes requires stature far beyond my meager frame.

I returned to the teahouse and set out on the return path. As I circled Mount Kinkei’s foothill from east to north, day turned to dusk. When I looked back, the crescent moon hung above Kabuto Rock's summit.

Later I heard that from Mount Kinkei’s summit, traversing along the ridge, one could reach the westernmost Hittō Rock. One could even ascend to the summit of Hittō Rock. However, it was said that without using a rope, descending proved difficult. It was also said that there lay a deep cave in Mount Kinkei's foothills—the remains of gold mining operations from long ago.

V

I set out to ascend Mount Hakuun with yesterday’s guide.

When he left his lodging, Myōgi Shrine stood immediately before him.
Traces of Shinto-Buddhist syncretism lingered at Nio Gate where guardian kings still stood.
To his right rose a palace atop a stone platform.
The shrine office adjoined this structure.
With deep ties to Kan'ei-ji Temple in Edo’s Eastern Capital, it had become that temple’s retired imperial prince-monk’s residence—still called “the Palace” today.
Standing with Nio Gate at his back revealed a copper torii.
The stone platform faced heavenward.
Ancient cedars narrowed its expanse while spreading laterally.
Several trees appearing millennia-old stood sentinel—their emerald foliage pressing upon visitors.
Among them blazed autumn’s essence—a golden ginkgo and crimson maple.
Beside an ornate golden lantern drooped an aged cherry tree whose branches cascaded halfway down stone walls.
Entering Zuishin Gate I paid homage at its shrine.
Of considerable size and glittering with gold-leafed splendor—it arrested every eye.
Truly one of Kanto’s foremost sacred sites.
Yet I valued these precincts’ grandeur above their architecture.

He entered the mountain from the right side of the shrine.
Apart from cedars, there were many large trees such as Japanese horse chestnuts and firs.
There was a ravine where water trickled gently.
Crossing a log bridge, he emerged into another ravine ahead and continued upward.
No water.
Uguisu Waterfall and Higure Waterfall existed as mere names during ordinary times.
Hyōtan-ana—a hole piercing clean through the rock like an inverted gourd—amounted to little when compared with Kintō’s wonders.
As a ravine it held nothing remarkable—yet with its steep path, numerous ancient trees, and massive vines, among Myōgi’s three mountains this stood apart as a place of profound seclusion.

If one goes behind Large Character Rock, the residual ridge of the rear peak—resembling a horse’s back—connects to it.
Clinging to the rocky edges, I stood atop Large Character Rock.
When I looked up, Mount Hakuun loomed overhead as if to crush me; when I looked down, the houses of Myōgi lay at my feet.
I looked out still farther over the Usui River basin.
Though the uppermost layer of autumn leaves had completely scattered, there were leaves above and leaves below—every direction was awash in crimson foliage.
The grand spectacle of Myōgi’s autumn foliage deems Large Character Rock its foremost.
They had dug holes into the rock and erected three pillars, assembling bamboo into a large framework before fastening paper fragments to it without leaving gaps.
When asked what this symbol meant, it was said that since Myōgi Shrine had originally been called Myōgi Dai-Gongen, they took the “dai” character from Dai-Gongen to guide Nakasendō travelers to its location.
Mount Myōgi had once thrived; when guides pointed to the distant large character and declared “There lies Myōgi Dai-Gongen,” how must those devout men and women led from afar have felt their hearts leap?
The large character was not merely some childish trifle.

As I ascended, I saw rock surfaces bearing rock pines.
The grove stood tall, growing ever more secluded.
Passing through Benten's Cavern, I reached the Inner Sanctuary.
In the depths of the rock cavern, a stone Buddha was enshrined.

From Myōgi Shrine to Large Character Rock measured fifteen chō; from Large Character Rock to the Inner Sanctuary ten chō; from there to the summit twenty-five chō—collectively referred to as a fifty-chō ascent.
The path up to the Inner Sanctuary proved rugged yet not perilous.
Beyond that point steepness combined with genuine danger.
He crawled up hazards like Pigeon-Breast Ridge on all fours and traversed razor-edged paths.
Though trees stood clustered here they remained sparse.
Fallen leaves carpeted every inch of ground making each step treacherously slick.
What he trusted for support—roots and branches—proved indistinguishable from rotten wood; when one snapped unexpectedly beneath his grip cold dread shot through him.
At last he attained the peak.
A stone shrine stood there.
While panoramic views satisfied they lacked Mount Nakanodake’s sweeping breadth.
Autumn colors gracing Nakao Valley below paled beside those he’d witnessed from Mount Nakanodake facing Nakagiyama.
Even skies fell short of yesterday’s clarity while Asama’s winds cut bone-deep with cold.
"I felt faintly disappointed."

On the return journey, instead of descending toward the Inner Sanctuary, he made his way to Ōyabazu.
Two large rocks on the ridge stood facing each other like an arrow’s notch.
Descending along Byōbu Rock, going down backward while crawling down the two perilous points of Inu-modoshi, he reached the front of Mount Shakaga; looking to the right at Dragon-Standing Rock Valley, he rejoined the former Inner Sanctuary site above Large Character Rock.
Whichever path he took was dangerous and arduous.
Those who climbed Mount Hakuun could well speak of the mountain path’s dangers.
Mount Kinkei followed next in danger.
Mount Nakanodake was the lowest.

Returning to the inn, I thought to explore Mount Hakuun’s rear peaks but was told it required a full day’s effort.
Deferring until tomorrow, I wandered alone through the stone gates.
However many times I gazed upon them—how bizarre and uncanny they remained!
With all sightseers departed and not a single bird’s call left,

He sat down at the southern end of the Fourth Stone Gate and lost himself in reverie.
Dusk swept over; the mountain grew ever more secluded.
As he flicked away the half-smoked cigarette and shifted his gaze, a blind spider with absurdly long legs startled and scurried off.
Thinking the path would grow perilous after nightfall, he turned back.
The blind spider that had fled came back again.
What could it possibly be seeking?

That night, Mr. and Mrs. Miyazaki Toranosuke came by presenting their calling card; they talked until late into the night.

Six

When seeking guides for Mount Hakuun’s rear peaks, I found fifteen or sixteen who worked as guides in Myōgi, but only two or three who knew the rear mountains.
Those two or three had all gone out; unfortunately, no guides were available.
I was at a loss when Mr. Miyazaki proposed postponing the rear mountain excursion until tomorrow and visiting Kintō together today; agreeing, we set off.
A single guide accompanied us.

Even after exploring the stone gates three times, I still did not tire of them. Passing four stone gates and Tengu Terrace too, I reached Tengu's Council Hall. Mr. Miyazaki, suggesting we hear the prophet's hymn, prompted his wife and they sang together. His voice and hers harmonized, echoing through mountain ravines. To speak of zither and lute in accord—this couple embodied it perfectly. Mr. Miyazaki had styled himself a prophet and proclaimed it to the world for years now. Though I knew not how many followers he'd gained, this comely young wife alone remained his ardent devotee. Their bond showed no transient infatuation—even an outsider could see that. When Morita Sessai's wife first wed, she'd composed: "Should my lord let me grasp broom and pan,/Half spouse I'll be, half disciple-man." Zhang Chuanshan's wife wrote: "Your brush-tip visions of misted peaks compel—/I'll trade my gold hairpin for tavern's swell." For Mrs. Miyazaki then: "Half as husband, half as god." Let society decry it delusion or worse—what soul rising above mediocrity lacks some flavor of madness? He who holds fast to his creed lives blessed.

When I asked, “Did you compose this song?” he replied, “No, it is my wife’s creation.”

Having returned to a somewhat level spot beside Mutsumi-iwa, Mr. and Mrs. Miyazaki sang once more.
The view here was splendid as well.
When I asked the guide whether this place had any established name, he replied that it did not.
“Then let us name it Prophet’s Platform,” I proposed, to which Mr. Miyazaki approved.
Pitifully, the guide stood frozen with a troubled expression, feigning Buddha-like ignorance.

We arrived at Nishiyama and ascended Mount Asahi.
Two or three days prior, a tourist had dropped a silver pocket watch from his pocket while peering through the iron railing.
Thinking it must have caught somewhere rather than fallen all the way down, every guide who came by peered intently into the crevice.
Though I believed there could be no error in the guides' judgment, temptation overcame me—I had to look for myself.
Turning away to smoke a cigarette, I acknowledged my own weak-willed nature.
On Momochi-riki Rock—named for Mr. Momochi-riki's famed handstand years earlier—I spotted two Imperial University students performing handstands.
When I instinctively applauded, the guide remarked, "Plenty of students do handstands."
Ah! Let no one claim today's youth are decadent.
Victories over China or Russia alike stem ultimately from this very vigor bursting forth.

Seven

Parting ways with Mr. and Mrs. Miyazaki Toranosuke, who were bound for Ikaho, I left the inn at dawn.
I set out for Mount Hakuun's rear peaks.

The weather today was also fine.

I circled around Mount Hakuun’s northeastern foothills—a place called Jinbagahara. Now government forest land, cedar saplings had been planted here though none yet reached a shaku in height. Withering bracken fronds persisted while gentians and bellflowers bloomed seasonally. Crossing a stream and pushing through tangled undergrowth, I climbed upward to find a stone shrine. “Yakko Shrine,” announced the guide. Ascending about one chō brought another shrine into view. While stunted scrub trees covered both summit and base elsewhere, here pines grew conspicuously tall. Beneath our feet stretched parts of Yokokawa and Goryō in the Usui River basin.

The guide pointed southeastward into a valley: “This is Mount Hakuun’s rear peak.” His finger traced a damp line bisecting the cliff face—two tiered strata resembling an extruded navel. “When rain comes,” he added, “this becomes Protruding Navel Waterfall.” Beyond an intervening ridge stood a human-shaped formation—“Doll Rock.” Deeper in the valley rose another outcrop mimicking a horse’s pricked ears—“Hasami-iwa Rock.” He sighed, “Had we come sooner, you’d see autumn colors at their peak here.” But when questioned about the Stone Gates, he pleaded ignorance.

When asked about the strange rocks beyond the Stone Gates, he did not know.
He said he had never gone beyond this point.
"On top of that," he said, "today I must take passengers to Matsuida Station by ten o'clock."
Due to those circumstances, it seemed he was not feigning ignorance by claiming not to know.
Unwittingly, I had failed to secure a competent guide.
I had no choice but to turn back.

Ah, the wonders of Mount Hakuun! I had barely reached its gates yet still not ascended to its hallowed heights.

The wonders of these rear peaks are said to stem from their recent discovery by Myōgi's shrine priests. About a month prior, the newly printed Mount Myōgi Guidebook had specially noted that their marvels rivaled those of Kintō. Yet such assertions refused to settle in my mind without firsthand verification. I resolved to first consult the shrine priest himself, but the passengers bound for Matsuida had already departed. Though I arrived by the appointed departure time, the guide now proved useless. Having hit upon an idea, when I proposed offering guidance myself, I found myself being led up Mount Hakuun once again.

The path up until passing through Okunoin and climbing Hatobuse was the same one I had ascended two days prior; from there, changing course, I reached Tainai-kuguri. Having scaled the rock cavern, leapt through a small opening, and emerged onto the ridgeback, I rejoined the path I had taken two days prior.

Having arrived at what is called the summit of Mount Hakuun, I shared a boxed meal and a bottle of sake with the guide.
From here, clambering up and down the razor-edge ridges once more, I reached the summit of Mount Tengu.
There was a stone shrine.
This peak stood higher than the so-called summit of Mount Hakuun, its vista stretching even wider.
The summit’s spaciousness also stood unrivaled among Mount Myōgi’s various peaks.
Heading south, I descended that familiar razor-edge ridge.
Having likely spanned centuries, the moss lay luxuriantly thick.
The mouse-grass had turned entirely yellow.
The guide said, “The fresh greenery of this grass is exceedingly beautiful.”
While the three peaks of Mount Myōgi all stand with their rocky bones thrust up in fury, this area somehow feels endearingly familiar.
When angered, he could make ten thousand men cower; when he smiled, children would cling to him with affection—here I beheld the very likeness of such a gallant man.
Having descended, I emerged between Mount Tengu and Mount Sōma.
Leaving the guide behind, I alone reached the summit of Mount Sōma.
Here too, I traversed that familiar razor-edge ridge.
Particularly—perhaps because visitors do not reach here—there was no path.
However, upon reaching the summit, I was involuntarily struck with awe and delight.
The vista from Mount Hakuun’s summit was greatly obstructed by Tengu and Sōma.
Tengu was somewhat obstructed by Sōma.
Sōma was not obstructed even by Tengu.
From this, one may know its height.

In all directions, unobstructed to the eye, the grandeur of the vista stood truly unrivaled among all peaks of Mount Myōgi.
Although Sōma and Tengu bore separate peak names, they were in fact one and the same mountain as Mount Hakuun.
Sōma was indeed the main peak of Hakuun.
It had long been the sovereign of Nakao’s two peaks.
The spur extended along Kintō’s eastern face，connected to Kinkei’s Hittō-iwa Rock，and there gave rise to Ipponsugi Pass.
From the so-called summit of Mount Hakuun，those who turned back without ascending here could not yet be said to have truly climbed the mountain.
There was no stone shrine on this summit.
There was a triangulation point.
The wooden framework had crumbled，leaving only the stone marking north and south.

Since it was a pathless mountain, I had wondered how to find my way back—and indeed ended up taking the wrong descent path. Noticing this, when I called out “Hey! Hey!”, the answering voice that should have been nearby below seemed to come from far to the right. However, due to my left ear being deaf, there was no way to clearly discern where the answering voice originated. I shouted at the top of my lungs for them to light a fire and waited, puffing on a cigarette. Smoke from the fire rose. Through the forest of withered trees, even the fire was visible. It was in a place slightly below, across Mitsutani Valley. Guided by that fire, I descended and arrived.

Judging by the lay of the land, if one were to descend west from here through this valley of one rear peak, one would likely emerge at Jinbōgahara Plain which I had traversed that morning.
It was said even guides had taken this path.
Yet to reach the rear peaks' stone gates, one must pass through Hakkitsune stone shrine once more.
Were one to descend into Issoku Valley and cross a single ridge, one might emerge near Hassamu-iwa Rock where stone gates were said to stand.
But there would be no path.
Even the guides knew nothing of this terrain.
He estimated the time as around three o'clock.
On an autumn day when daylight drops like a well bucket, I would find myself facing early dusk in these mountains.
What I lamented was having no fan to call back the sun.
Even those guides who claimed some recollection now remembered nothing.
"Enough—it's wrong to thoughtlessly blame others."
All had arisen from my own carelessness.

Finally taking the path eastward and arriving directly at Myōgi’s lodging without emerging at the vineyard—this occurred at half past four in the afternoon. If I had headed toward the rear mountains, as I had feared, day would have fallen while still in the mountains. Among the three or four times I ascended and descended Mount Myōgi’s various peaks, what I found most difficult was this descent path. The slope was steep; in that pathless place where one tried to preserve life, thorns pierced hands and withered grasses stole fresh blood from fingers. Yet even this hardship cannot compare to the grandeur witnessed atop Mount Sōma.

Having spent five days already at Mount Myōgi, with funds depleted and my pass valid only through today, under the evening moon’s glow I bid farewell to this mountain of manifold fascinations.

In the supplement to Nihon Sangaku-shi (Chronicle of Japanese Mountains), it states: "Myōgi is truly a volcanic haunted house. If forced to evaluate it, [the mountain] leans too heavily on clever oddity, lacking in solemnity"—this assessment I too shared. However, the wonder of these stone gates stood unparalleled in the world. The view from Mount Sōma’s summit also ranked among the world’s foremost vistas. To those who comprehend mountaineering’s true appeal—do not turn back at the stone gates. I implored them: ascend to the summits of all three peaks. The wonders of Myōgi lay beyond what my mediocre brush could ever adequately capture. Combining these with the overlooked rear peaks of Mount Hakuun, did not the world await a person of extraordinary talent?

Thanks to my precautions, this time not only did my knee joints remain free from pain, but neither did I feel particularly fatigued.
If such was the case, then I could indeed journey across a thousand leagues. (Meiji 42)