Pathway to Japanese Literature

The persistently rainy weather continued; even after November arrived, there were no stretches of completely clear days.
The precipitation proved particularly heavy from Saturday through Sunday.
This spiteful rain thwarted our initial momentum, leaving our departure delayed by three weeks from the original schedule.
Had this been a journey combining foliage viewing with our climb, half its purpose would already have been forfeited. But since ascending Mount Kōkai constituted our primary objective, though it was an autumn excursion, the colored leaves ultimately mattered little.
We did however worry - should temperatures drop too severely and snow descend upon the mountains, complications would surely arise.

Where exactly is Mount Kōkai located? There were likely many hearing its name for the first time.
And that was only natural.
This mountain was so unremarkable that only through meticulous scouring—by contrarians who’d scoff at calling it part of the Japanese Alps—poring over maps with flea-picking scrutiny for any intriguing peak over two thousand meters did it finally surface as one such candidate here.
I too first learned of “Mount Kōkai, 2,143.5 meters” when the Land Survey Department’s Mount Nantai map sheet was published.
And seeing no mountains exceeding 2,000 meters in the vicinity, I was delighted at how intriguing this seemed.
Of course, I imagine I wasn’t the only one who felt such delight.

However, when actually viewed, this mountain proved to be quite prominent.
At that time, we were unaware of its appearance from other directions, but when viewed from the south—within the Jōshū region where the interconnected peaks of Kesamaru-yama are collectively called Neriyama—it jutted up abruptly with a slightly lower, concave summit at the far left end of the range. In snow-heavy seasons, depending on one’s vantage point, it could even be mistaken for Okushirane.
Needless to say, this mountain can be seen from tall buildings in Tokyo’s city center or elevated areas in the suburbs.
Of course, one could not know which mountain it was, but with the publication of a 1:50,000 topographic map, it became clear that this corresponded to Mount Kōkai.

However, older documents make no mention of Mount Kōkai.
The Shōhō map records "Saku-yama" at the boundary between the two counties of Tone and Seta and Shimotsuke.
Furuichi Tsuyoshi’s *Maebashi Fudoki* (前橋風土記), which contains a preface dated September 29, 1684, includes in the entry for the Neriyama mountains in its Mountains and Rivers section:

Saku-yama: Tsugahara-yama, Kinosori, Enma-no-toya. Using the mountain summit as the boundary; from the summit southward, all belong to Neri.

Toidesawa: Located in the southern mountain valley of Sakusawa; abundant in whetstones.

Sakusawa: Located north of Toidesawa but separated by a mountain; its stream flows west to join the Katashina River.

In Moro Yoshisato’s *Records of Ueno Province*—which bears a preface dated August 19th in the third year of An’ei (1774)—the Mountains and Rivers section of Tone County states:

Saku-yama.
[It] was located south of Mount Nadeko on Shimotsuke Province's boundary.
In Shimotsuke Province, [it] was called Mount Jōkenbō.
The mountain's southern portion belonged to Seta District.

It states.
In the entry for Saku-yama, the names following Tsugahara-yama would presumably be read as Yakenosori and Enma-no-toya.
In other words, the various mountains—Saku-yama, Tsugahara-yama, Yakenosori, Enma-no-toya, and others—formed a continuous mountain range, with their summits serving as the boundary; everything south of this belonged to Neri.
A branch ridge extending west from Mount Kōkai connected to Nobeyama Pass.
I believed Enma-no-toya was the name of this vicinity.
From these accounts, the location of Saku-yama became clear.
That is to say, it was located at the boundary between Tone and Seta Counties and on the provincial border with Shimotsuke.
Now Nerisono Village is included within Akaginesono Village and incorporated into Tone County, though it was originally a village in Kita-Seta County.
In the Fujimi Thirteen Provinces Complete Terrestrial Map, Nerisono Village—mistakenly written as Tone in this map—was indeed marked at its northeastern corner adjacent to Tone County on the Shimotsuke border as Saku-yama.
Saku (座句) was equivalent to *Saku*, and based on its location, appeared to correspond to Mount Kōkai.
If that were the case, then Sakusawa would refer to what is now Fudōsawa or Kurihara River, with Toidesawa being Toisawa beyond doubt.

According to the County and Village Gazetteer, this was further confirmed. In the same volume, under the mountains section for Tone County’s Hirawa Village:

Kōgaiyama.
In Setta County, it is called Saku-yama.
Straddling both Shimotsuke and Kōzuke Provinces; high and steep, its height remained unknown.
It towered southeast of the village, with its southern edge belonging to Nerisono Village.
Steep and with no climbing path.
The trees consisted of hemlock and basswood.
To the south, the mountain range connected to Ashio-san and Kōshin-san in Shimotsuke Province; to the east, it linked to Nikkō-san.

Given this account, that Saku-yama was the same as Zaku-yama, and that it corresponded to Mount Kōkai, required no further explanation to be evident.

Next is Kōgaiyama; since the *County and Village Gazetteer* does not note its pronunciation, it remained unclear whether to read it by its on’yomi or kun’yomi. Still, I concluded that reading it as *Kōgai* in kun’yomi would be the safest approach. The *County and Village Gazetteer* had been compiled in December of Meiji 12 (1879), suggesting that around that time in Tone County, people referred to it as *Kōgaiyama* or *Kōgaisan*. The Meiji 21 (1888) report from Hirawa Village, unfortunately, contained no entry about this mountain. However, in the section titled "Watercourses" from Oikake Village’s report,

The Kurihara River originates from between Mount Kōkai, winding countless times as it flows southwest of this village, bisects the terrain between it and Ōyagi Village, and finally empties into the Katashina River.

Also, in the waterfall section:

Inokobana Falls, located in Kimura, aza Inokobana.
Height: thirty *jō* (approx. 90.9 meters); width: seven *ken* (approx. 12.7 meters).
The water source originates from the center of Mount Kōkai’s Eboshidake, located due east of this village, and flows into the Katashina River.

There existed such an account. Inokobana was also called Ino no Hana, and while geographical records described Ino no Hana Falls as Ueno Province’s foremost waterfall, reading Mr. Ōmachi Keigetsu’s *Kantō no Sansui* revealed a different story. In its seventh section on Jōshū’s landscapes, he wrote: “When an order came from the authorities to document local scenic sites, though Enkaku was a grand waterfall, its name lacked appeal. Finding ‘Ino no Hana’ more intriguing, they grafted that name onto Enkaku’s reality.” In truth, Ino no Hana Falls was not particularly remarkable—the far larger cascade lay upstream at Enkaku Falls.

The article from the *County and Village Gazetteer* cited there had been compiled under orders from the authorities to document local scenic sites, and it became the source from which many geographical texts propagated discrepancies with reality. Be that as it may, the documentation regarding the waterfalls was incomplete; even if the water sources were identified, it remained unclear which rivers they belonged to.

However, the true Ino no Hana Falls hung over the Kurihara River, and Enkaku Falls—erroneously called Ino no Hana—was a cascade suspended over Fudōsawa upstream of the same river. Thus, Mount Kōkai, situated at their water source and being Kōgaiyama, was beyond doubt. Examining this revealed that around Meiji 21 (1888), Kōgaiyama had also been written as Kōkaiyama.

It was neither strange nor unexpected that it came to be called Mount Kōkai, but I did not know when it began to be referred to as “Sky”—though I presumed it must have been quite recent. It must have been that Mount Kōkai was misread as “Sky” for some reason and came into common use as such. Since 皇 is read as *sume* or *sumera*, it was possible that 皇海 (*Kōkai*) had been misread as “Sky.” Zaku could naturally be read as *Saku*, and instances where *Kōgai* was assigned Chinese characters like *Kuwaugai* were not uncommon in rural areas.

In *Records of Ueno Province*, it states that in Shimotsuke, this mountain is called Mount Jōkenbō.
Given that there is a Mount Shukudōbō in the vicinity, Mount Jōkenbō should also exist; however, I do not know whether such a designation still persists today.
In *The Landscapes of Kantō*, within the second section on Yashū’s landscapes under the entry for Mount Kōshin, there exists the following account.

Proceeding another two or three *ri* brought one to Mount Ōtake; during Mount Kōshin’s heyday, this had been established as its inner sanctuary, but now it was said almost none made the journey.

At the shrine office, there was no one to guide us; I resolved to hire a separate guide another day and investigate then.

I had indeed heard the name Mount Ōtake before, having been taught that it referred to Nokogiriyama—the highest point on the ridge extending from Mount Kōshin—but this proved erroneous, for Mount Ōtake was none other than Mount Kōkai itself.
Descending slightly eastward from Mount Kōkai's summit triangulation point stood what appeared to be a brass sword approximately seven shaku tall (about 2.1 meters) and five to six sun wide (15–18 cm). Its southern face bore a vermilion inscription reading "Great Deity of Kōshin Two Pillars" at center, with "Dedicated by Kibayashi Iichi, Founder of This Mountain" below. The reverse showed only a casually written note: "Meiji 26 [illegible] July 21 – Fifty-five Wakabayashi Members from [illegible]sawa on Pilgrimage," lacking any dedication date.
As an aside, curious about Kibayashi Iichi's identity, I requested Mr. Sekiguchi Genzō—then in Ashio—to investigate. He proved to be a leader of Tokyo's Kōshin pilgrimage group who had pioneered the route from Mount Kōshin to Mount Kōkai, establishing the latter as an inner sanctuary.
Though Mount Kōshin contains its own inner sanctuary, this designation apparently signifies Mount Kōkai's role as sanctuary-mountain relative to Mount Kōshin proper.
Contemporary accounts also mention vigorous ascents from Matsukisawa.
Whether climbers from Mount Kōshin followed ridges or descended temporarily into Matsukisawa before ascending—like those from Matsukisawa itself—both routes now lie completely ruined and untraceable. Yet ridge peaks bearing names like Jizōdake, Yakushidake, Shiranesan, Zaōsan, Kumanodake, Tsuruginoyama, and Nokogiriyama suggest possible ridge traverses.
The continuous ridge's apex at Nokogiriyama straddles Ueno Province's border.
This peak surpasses Mount Kōshin in height.
From that vantage point, V-shaped gaps separated each ridge peak—flanked by apparent precipices—making summit-to-summit traversal along the ridgeline seem wholly implausible.
Descending a hundred meters below would likely permit passage.
In any event, Mount Kōkai once drew significant numbers of climbers—apparently from Meiji's early years through Meiji 25.
Whether fortune or misfortune, this mountain—while towering over Mount Kōshin—ultimately failed to retain visitors as faith declined, chiefly due to lacking equivalent marvels of caverns or rock formations.

As the days-long rain had finally let up, we departed from Asakusa Station on the Tobu Line with my companion Mr. Fujishima on November 16th.
We transferred to the Ashio Line at Aioi and alighted at Haramuko; it was nearly 4:00 p.m.
The Watarase River had swollen slightly, washing away the bridge; unable to take the shortcut, we walked the main road and arrived at Hara.
We had planned to follow the dotted trail marked on the 1:50,000-scale Ashio map sheet—running from Hara toward Nerisono-yama—first climbing the border mountain range, advancing south to reach the 1,957-meter triangulation point, then retracing our steps to descend westward along a valley from its northern peak, emerge onto the mapped path to Togisawa, and ascend Mount Kōkai from somewhere the following day.
Upon arriving in Hara, we immediately stopped people by the roadside to inquire about the condition of this path.
The results proved as inconclusive as ever, but the young people insisted there was one.
In any case, it would become clear tomorrow, so we didn't worry.

Because there were no inns in Hara, we went five or six chō north to Giri Meki and stayed at a place called Etchūya.
There were also others called Echigoya and Ishiwaya.
All were merely a notch above budget lodgings.

We shared a room with a man who had come from Togisawa.
According to his account, there was a cleared path at the border, and one could make a round trip from Rikurin-han to Mount Kōkai in half a day.
On the Jōshū side of Jōshū Pass lay a Rikurin-han cableway facility.
That area was currently being logged, he said, while Hachirin-han had already been replanted with trees and was now uninhabited.
They were pleased—the climb seemed easier than they had expected.

Peering through a gap in the storm shutters at bedtime, they saw scaly gray clouds blanketing the entire sky as a tepid wind swept in.
It was thoroughly disagreeable weather.

They departed at 6:40 a.m. on the morning of the 17th.
The sky was overcast and slightly hazy.
They returned to Hara, asked about the entrance to the ridge trail, passed through the fields, and after climbing a somewhat steep two hundred meters up the mountainside, emerged onto the ridge.
It was 7:10 a.m.
The path was good—especially after emerging onto the ridge, it became even better, with larch plantations on both sides.
The mist gradually thickened, and as the nearby mountains grew hazy and distant, raindrops began to patter down.
By 8:10 a.m., they arrived at the base of the 1,226-meter triangulation point.
This area presented a wide, flat ridge resembling a plateau, with planted forest roads crisscrossing the terrain.
By this point, all the leaves had already fallen from the trees in the area.
After resting at the hut for about twenty minutes, they departed at 8:30 a.m.
After climbing for a while and reaching the ridge, there was also a path to the right.
As they absentmindedly followed it, the path gradually curved to the right and began descending little by little.
In the valley on the right, houses appeared.
It appeared to be Kotaki and Ginzan-daira.
Finding it too tedious to backtrack eight or nine chō*, they chose a hollow with flowing water on their left and climbed through a larch forest of trees nearly six meters tall toward the ridge.
This ascent was fraught with numerous obstructions, making it arduous.
The spot they reached appeared to be near 1,449 meters in elevation.
From this point onward, the path grew increasingly wider, appearing to be about nine shaku (roughly 2.7 meters) across.
It might have also served as a firebreak.
After descending a short distance, they were met with a long, straight ascent. At a spot marked by stakes labeled “51” and “52” forest blocks, the broad path came to an end, from which a faint trail branched off to the left.

Pushing through dried susuki grass and small bamboo thickets two to three shaku (60–90 cm) tall, they climbed upward and reached the 1,593-meter triangulation point at ten o'clock.

The rain finally grew heavy, and now even mist joined in, completely blocking any view.
After resting for about fifteen minutes, they set out.
Winding around the left side, they crossed a high point where an area of thriving mixed trees and deep bamboo grass lay.
Soon, within the larch forest, the path abruptly ended, and they could no longer discern where it continued.
It was certain that this was the south side of the mountain with a 1,680-meter contour.

The rain began to fall heavily.
As it was nearly noon, they finished their lunch, and thinking they had descended too far, climbed through the forest of dead undergrowth while getting soaked, emerging onto the summit's bamboo grass plain.
There, the expanse was wide and the bamboo grass so dense that they could not easily find a path.
The two spent a full thirty minutes before finally managing to locate something resembling a path.
They descended and climbed again, crossed a minor rise, circled around the right side of a low hill, and emerged at a small saddle.
Up to this point—at any rate—they must have followed a route largely matching the dotted path on the map.
According to the map, from here the path circled along the north side of the ridge, with trail traces not much different from what they'd seen so far.
Admittedly, the birch and bamboo grass growing thickly hindered their progress, though it remained far easier than pushing through thickets.
Moreover, being a path that followed contour lines almost exactly while ascending extremely gradually, they could walk it without even realizing they were climbing.
Initially assuming this path would curve slightly right—too subtly for map notation—before reaching the ridge, they found instead an unvarying continuation of similar trail made worse by increasingly dense bamboo grass.
Here, though confirming this path differed entirely from the map's markings, they had no choice but to press forward.
Thus proceeding until the path collided with a stream where exposed rocks created substantial flow, ending abruptly.
They noticed traces of felled trees nearby.
Crossing the mountain stream to the opposite bank, they walked a short distance before finding another small stream.
After passing it, they attempted climbing the slope diagonally leftward but found the bamboo grass too dense to proceed.
They therefore decided to ascend via the mountain stream instead, turning back to climb the small watercourse.
After ascending about 150 meters until the stream ended, they emerged onto a primary ridge.
At this point abandoning their attempt on Neri Mountain's highest point, having mutually resolved to descend via Jōshū Pass route upon reaching the border ridge toward Togisawa, they began descending rightward under the assumption this ridge formed part of the border mountain range.
However, as the descent grew excessively steep they grew suspicious and instead opted to climb higher again—ascending a fairly precipitous hundred-meter slope brought them to what appeared a summit.
Peering through fog ebbing and flowing like tidewater revealed something ridge-like continuing leftward.

Concluding that this must undoubtedly be the Border Mountain Range, they began tracing along the ridge to the right—that is, northward.
Since neither of them had a compass, they had absolutely no sense of direction, leaving them no choice but to mentally reconstruct the path they had taken thus far and determine their course based on that.
Though they thought dusk remained some time away, they deemed checking the time too wasteful and hurried onward, letting their legs carry them.
The ridge top was thick with black trees where bamboo grass grew sparse, making walking much easier.
In some places they could clearly discern paths; in others lay traces of campfires.
They quickened their pace, certain the pass trail couldn’t be far, but even after walking over an hour still encountered nothing resembling it.
The ground beneath their feet gradually darkened and grew treacherous.
Fujishima, who had gone ahead, announced he had emerged into a bright area.
We suddenly felt as though hurled from dark woods into brightness.
It was a place where trees had been cleared.
With ample sunlight, bamboo grass stood taller than a person.
Dead branches crisscrossed within—no sooner had they thought the brightness brought relief than walking grew far harder than before.
Instead it became all downhill.
Here amid deep bamboo grass and abundant fuel—though lacking water—they found a suitable spot to spend the night with their provisions.
Yet believing the pass near, they continued descending until reaching a saddle.
Still no mountain pass trail existed.
Even had one been there, finding it in darkness would prove difficult.
The rain resumed around three p.m., now joined by wind.
It was half past five.
Ahead to their right in the valley, firelight glowed brightly through rain and mist.

They supposed it must be either the mountain rescue hut said to exist along the Jōshū Pass route or perhaps a cableway operator’s hut.
It didn’t seem far, but they couldn’t possibly reach it.
We casually agreed to spend the night there as we were, descended a short way down the slope planted with larch trees to our right, settled into a spot where the undergrowth seemed thickest, Fujishima donned his waterproof cloak, and I held up a parasol torn to shreds by tree trunks and branches—completing our preparations for an all-night vigil.
All that remained was to wait for dawn.
The interminable wait for dawn.

At last, the long night came to an end.
When they looked around, they found they had camped in a rather peculiar spot.
If only they had descended just a few meters further—there had been a nice flat area where both could have slept comfortably.
They set out walking as soon as the ground grew bright enough to see; though temperatures were mild and their underlayers sufficient after standing through a November night’s rain left their bodies stiff and limbs sluggish.
The ridge became an ascent where deep bamboo grass tangled around their legs; when buffeted by crosswise gusts threatening to knock them over progress proved nearly impossible.
They therefore descended into the downwind valley on their right toward where firelight had appeared overnight picking their way downslope.
It was eight o'clock.
Soon reaching a small stream they followed it down spending forty minutes from saddleback ridge until reaching its confluence with main rapids.
The main stream’s steep gradient formed perilous cascades resembling waterfalls though none truly merited that name save two erosion-control structures creating artificial falls.
Descending these proved arduous particularly lower sections demanding careful negotiation.
They forded repeatedly yet found water oddly temperate against expectation.
Later learning this was Akaiwa-sawa—true to its name—they noted reddish-brown collapsed rocks littering its bed.
After nearly two hours descending they spotted path-like traces on left-bank slopes soon crossing river to find suspended water conduit.
Climbing right-bank incline dwellings abruptly materialized before them.
A local chanced by; asked their location received “Togisawa”—leaving us who’d believed ourselves descending solely toward Ginzandaira simultaneously dumbstruck yet elated at reaching unintended destination.

In hindsight, we had followed the path marked on the map around the right side of a peak with a 1,680-meter contour ring, only for the path to vanish upon reaching a saddle. We then strayed onto an older trail that roughly traced the contour lines while winding along the ridge’s right flank. Crossing the first stream originating from the border, we ascended the northern ridge alongside a smaller stream, turned southwest to the left, and reached the vicinity of a summit with a 1,920-meter contour ring—Nena Mountain (called Mochigase)—located just north of the mapped path. At that moment, we mistook the ridge to our left—where the path actually lay—for the border ridge extending to Kesamaru Mountain. Believing our southward advance along the right-hand border ridge to instead be northward progress, we descended a branch ridge due west from the peak just north of the 1,957-meter triangulation point (Nagaregoya-no-Atama, called Mochigase), all while convinced we were moving straight ahead.
This area on the Jōshū side belonged to the Hachirin Group, so the logging had already been completed and the planting finished.
It made sense that we had thought it warm for a north wind—it had actually been a south wind.
That we had turned at nearly right angles twice yet remained convinced we were moving straight ahead could never be understood through map analysis alone.

There were no inns in Togisawa, but they had heard that Yoshida Tomekichi—a man who ran a work camp—would put them up at his house. When they went to request lodging for the night, he readily agreed.
When shown to the tatami room,the brazier and kotatsu were piled mountain-high with fire for them,and they set about drying their soaked belongings.
Not a single thing they were wearing had remained dry.
They bathed changed into work clothes,and stretched out under kotatsu finally regaining human composure.
They noticed both their appetites had significantly diminished.
Last night they had only eaten few biscuits gone without supper breakfast now already past noon.
Yet when sat meal took chopsticks nothing but soup would go down throats.
Reluctantly drank about two raw eggs substituting three meals.
Appeared bodies undergone considerable distress.
He grew concerned whether could continue climbing like this.
Fujishima being young remained energetic seemed polished off bowl two.

When the western sky began to brighten around three o'clock, blue skies appeared and sunlight began streaming through. Finding a moment, they went to the front desk and asked the proprietor about Mount Kōkai. He didn't know the details but mentioned one could apparently ascend from Fudōsawa ahead; he added there might be a path due to ongoing logging operations. In any case, it was certain they could make the ascent. They devoted all their efforts to drying their belongings, but even by the next morning, none had fully dried.

The morning of the 19th also brought no return of their appetites.
They barely managed to eat a bowl of food and, delayed by fussing over their drying gear, finally set out at 8:50 a.m.
Heading slightly west from the house’s front, turning right to cross Togisawa, and climbing the slope to its end, they emerged onto a slightly flat area atop the ridge.
To the northeast, the form of Mount Kōkai—thick with dark trees—came into close view for the first time.
A single path ran alongside a cableway leading toward Nobeyama Pass.
The mountains in that direction had been completely cleared, and Fudōsawa was now in the midst of being logged.
The descent was quite steep.
They arrived at Fudōsawa at 9:50 a.m.
Semi-permanent huts were scattered along both banks of the stream.
They asked an old man working in front of a hut about Mount Kōkai once more.
According to his account, there was a clearing stretching from the western saddle of Mount Kōkai up to the summit.
Since the path from Hirataki connected to that saddle, reaching there would make the ascent easier.
He told them that although he himself had never climbed it, he had heard that a sword was enshrined at the summit.
When they compared the map with the actual terrain, ascending the left fork of Fudōsawa—which originates from Mount Kōkai’s western flank—appeared both easier and more practical. Deciding to climb it, they crossed the stream, followed the path to the farthest hut, turned right to advance through the forest, and emerged at a substantial stream flowing from the left.
It was 10:30 a.m.
A considerable stream also flowed to the lower right.
They determined that this was indeed the right fork and that one was the left fork, rested for about ten minutes, then began ascending the stream.
The stream was relatively easy to walk along; after advancing about ten minutes, the riverbed became a single slab of basalt-like rock crisscrossed with fissures forming a columnar pattern, and the sight of water cascading over it was somewhat extraordinary.
At 10:55 a.m., a mountain stream came from the left.
At 11:20 a.m., another small mountain stream converged from the left.

When they looked back, a pyramid-shaped peak loomed distantly in the valley sky.
At the time, they couldn’t clearly discern which mountain it was, but later learned it was the summit of Mount Atsusa.
After a while, there was a waterfall of about two jō (six meters), and a small stream converged from the right.
Clinging to the left side of the waterfall and effortlessly crossing it, they encountered another cascade of about three jō (nine meters).
After climbing it and proceeding about one chō (110 meters), they found another mountain stream branching off to the left.
After proceeding about three chō (330 meters) from there, the stream seemed on the verge of drying up, reduced to mere trickles pooled between the rocks.
There, they had lunch.
As the valley’s vista opened slightly before them, they saw the Chichibu mountain range stretching from Gansaka to Kinpu—Mount Asama with Yatsume-yama before it and Mount Atsusa to its right.
The sky suddenly clouded over as a strong northwest wind began to blow. No sooner had the hail started to fall than snow began to flutter down.
If they remained still, the cold grew so intense that their limbs went numb.
Fortunately, the snow let up before long.

The waterless valley imperceptibly transformed into an open mountainside.
With no undergrowth to hinder them, the walking was easy.
The forest of dark trees here was quite similar to those around Chichibu.
However, near the ridge’s summit, there were quite a few fallen trees.
Passing through them, they arrived at the western saddle of Mount Kōkai at 12:40 PM.
When they raised their eyes, Okushirane’s snow-glistening dome towered directly ahead. To the left lay the twin peaks of Suzuridake and Kasa, while to the right stood the mountains of Sannōbōshi, Tarō, Manako, and Nantai. Between Kasa and Mikagura-dake, the twin spires of Hiuchigatake scored the heavens.
Sure enough, the path from Hirataki ascended to this saddle and extended further eastward.
Following this path would likely have brought us out beneath the cliffs rising sheer on Mount Kōkai’s northern face, but as time was precious, we did not go to see.

The clearing measured over nine shaku (approximately 2.7 meters) in width, running straight from the saddle to Mount Kōkai's West Peak. Though unobstructed, progress proved slow due to frost pillars crumbling across the steep slope and creating slippery conditions. They expended fifty-five minutes ascending barely three hundred meters before reaching Mount Kōkai's West Peak at 1:35 p.m.—a protrusion at the summit's western edge rather than a true secondary peak. Dense growth of dark trees blocked all views here. Where the clearing terminated directly below the summit proper, a worn path began its course eastward.

No sooner had they started descending eastward than the trail turned upward again, bringing them to the summit's triangulation point at two o'clock. Between these points lay what they perceived as another protrusion, though it appeared insignificant from afar. With trees cleared around the triangulation marker, panoramic vistas opened in every direction.

Southward lay the branch ridge connecting Nokogiriyama to Tobiwa at their very feet, while on Tobiwa's right shoulder stood visible even the cableway hut crowning Jōshū-tōge's heights. Beyond this stretched Neri-yama's serrated ridge merging into Kesamaru-yama—four peaks thrusting skyward with their 1,957-meter triangulation tower discernible unaided. To their right rose Akagi's Mount Kurohi in a blunt yet striking pyramidal form, while further along a diagonal line Suzugatake jutted like an isolated shark's tooth.

Between Akagi and Neri-yama unfurled Chichibu's principal range from Ogawa-yama to Ōdō-yama—its undulations evoking azure waves at sea's horizon—while above Kurohi glittered distant Southern Alps giants like Shirane Three Peaks, Akaishi, and Warusawa mantled in snow. Between Kurohi and Suzugatake loomed Asayo, Koma, and Nokogiri in silent formation.

West through northwest stood Haruna, Myōgi, Asama with Yatsume (Asamagakure), and Atsusa in sharp relief—yet beyond Atsusa swirled tempestuous clouds veiling all but Hotaka's frontal massif. Though Hiuchigatake had dissolved into cloudbanks, Mikagura-dake through Suzuridake remained visible alongside Nikko's volcanic cluster and across Watarase River—Yūhigatake, Jizōgatake, Yokone-yama—their western flanks gilded by sunlight piercing cloudbreaks.

Okushirane's snowfields shone brilliantly white—each cloud skimming its summit alternately dimming or illuminating those mirror-bright surfaces like polished steel. Mountains such as Kōshinzan bore forms seemingly inviting one to bow and grasp their summits as topknots—a posture explaining why Kōshin pilgrimage leaders had established this peak as their inner sanctuary.

The border range running north beneath their feet comprised Mount Mitsumata (1,980 meters; Jōshū regional designation)—its eastern branch spawning Kuromatsudake and Yashiro-yama while demarcating Lake Chūzenji's southern bounds—yet between Shukudōbōsan and elsewhere stretched only endless bamboo grass despite thriving dark trees elsewhere.

They had intended to traverse from Kesamaru-yama to Okushirane with ambitions akin to journeying from Kumotori-yama to Kinpu-san in Chichibu, but this bamboo grass left them utterly daunted.

At 2:30 p.m., they left the triangulation point. Descending slightly eastward, they found the aforementioned sword erected there.
The border lay even further east than that, while the cleared path heading northeast had been overtaken by dense young trees, making it nearly impossible to set foot there.
Those descending southward through sparse bamboo grass faced no significant hindrance.
Upon completing their descent, they pushed through somewhat deep bamboo grass and crossed two rises.
It was 3:35 p.m.
The second rise bore a marker at Kuwano-ki-daira.
The affliction of their waning appetite was beginning to make itself felt.
They had hoped to bypass the towering summit of Mount Nokogiri ahead, but passage seemed impossible without ascending.
This climb proved terrifyingly steep, compelling them to use both hands and feet.
Ochre-hued rock walls rose in tiered formations.
Gnarled trees with sprawling roots and branches - resembling defensive barriers - occupied the gaps; without these, certain sections would have been insurmountable.
Icicles clung to rock faces and tree roots throughout.
These frozen droplets likely formed from lingering rainwater.
The parched pair found partial relief from their thirst by consuming these ice formations.
They attained the highest point at 4:15 p.m.
There stood a marker post inscribed with "Sakunasori Hamlet."
Here unfolded a magnificent panorama: though valleys below had dimmed, mountain ranges loomed indistinctly, their purple and indigo slopes brushed with sunset hues.
Yet surpassing this beauty were clouds glowing under the setting sun's radiance.
Despite concerns about encroaching darkness, they lingered for nearly thirty minutes.

Descending west from Mount Nokogiri and ascending again brought them to the summit of Tobiwa Rock Hamlet's marked peak. From this vantage, the border range curved sharply southward, raising concerns they might stray into its western branch ridge. Yet by locating traces of a cleared path, they managed to descend through deep bamboo grass without losing their way.

Complete darkness had fallen. Though calling out while walking, they repeatedly drifted apart despite their efforts. Around six o'clock, they attained the cableway hut crowning the pass. Following its line westward brought them onto the pass road where electric lights glimmered about a kilometer below - likely Rokurin-han's cableway station.

At 6:20 p.m., they reached the facility. Explaining their situation at the office prompted the supervisor to dispatch an attendant seeking lodging. By fortune, a cabin stood available whose occupants had descended to the village that morning.

Guided to the office bathhouse, they immersed themselves in its startling abundance of clean water. With both steam engine and river at hand, taps gushed hot or cold water until tubs overflowed instantly. This alone struck them as genuine luxury.

The morning of November 20th dawned perfectly clear, with frost outside lying white as snow.
Through the glass window stretched a view reaching from Asama on the left to the vicinity of Mount Tanigawa on the right.
Mount Naeba too came into sight.
Sennokura stood out in particular splendor.
The fresh snow from yesterday's fall blazed in the light of the climbing morning sun, glowing rose-pink.
At 8:30 a.m., they left the hut, reached the pass in thirty minutes, cast a final glance at the snow-streaked mountain chain, and began descending eastward toward Ginzan-daira.
The streams flowing from Mount Nokogiri's direction held numerous waterfalls.
The autumn colors along the Kōshin River had not yet passed their prime.
Tanigawa's distinctive appeal remained undeniable.
12:00 Ginzan-daira; 1:20 p.m. Haramukai.
They then boarded the 2:26 train, transferred to the Tobu Line at Sōrō by five o'clock, but mechanical trouble delayed them until their eventual arrival at Asakusa Station around ten.