Pathway to Japanese Literature

At the Foot of the Shirane Peaks

One

Mr. Kojima Usui was the pioneer who introduced the Shirane peaks of Kai Province to the world.
Through his writings about these mountains in Mountains magazine, I had glimpsed descriptions of their undulating ridges gnawing at the sky—of snows that blushed crimson beneath dawn’s touch and burned orange in sunset’s glow, their hues shifting moment by moment as dusk deepened. Yearning to one day draw near those summits and seize their majestic forms and resplendent colors within my sketchbook’s pages, I waited ceaselessly for my chance.

I first saw the Shirane mountain range in the autumn of 1908 when visiting Lake Yamanaka in Kai Province. On the morning after a lingering rain finally cleared, as I circled the lake and stood on its eastern shore, I beheld snow-capped mountains stretching low across the northwestern horizon.
Shirane peaks!
I thought, yet doubts remained.
I pulled out the map from my pocket, pulled out the compass—and there, for the first time, the Shirane peaks!
I exclaimed.
From where I stood, they were not clearly visible.
I ran eastward, ever eastward along the shore; soon the path ended where cliff and water met, leaving a foothold of mere inches—yet even there I managed to press onward.
I edged along the rock.
I clung to tree roots.
Thus I pressed onward as far as possible.
And there was a time when I set up my tripod on a modest flat area and captured a portion of those cherished Shirane peaks that seemed to float like islands upon a mountain lake.

On a certain day in March of the following year—another morning after rain—while en route to Kamakura near Rokugo Iron Bridge, I once again encountered their crystalline form.
The desire to paint—to paint—grew even stronger.

Where would be best to capture Shirane? The mountains lay folded tenfold, twentyfold deep.
Unlike Mount Fuji, they could not be glimpsed from every vantage.
I pored over maps and questioned locals.
For close views—Nishiyama Pass; for distant prospects—Sasago Pass; these two seemed optimal.
On a day in May, I at last turned my steps toward Sasago.

I disembarked the train at Hatsukano and stayed two nights at a wretched inn near the station, but as the rain persisted relentlessly, I departed from there. And that evening, as I passed through Kofu on my way to Migashiguchi, I caught a glimpse of Kitadake’s peak through the turbulent clouds and felt my chest tighten.

The next day, while climbing Migashiguchi Pass, I caught intermittent glimpses of parts of the mountain range through breaks in the clouds. On the pass, I hurriedly made sketches as well. Even when ascending Onna-zaka Pass, I caught glimpses many times, but I could not behold their full form.

Passing Shōjin and departing Motosu, the Shirane peaks could be seen from the vicinity of Wariishi Pass at the boundary between Suruga and Kai.
It was a hazy, warm day; the mountains melted into the sky, their outlines so tenuous they threatened to vanish at any moment—distant and ethereal.

Two

Kai Province’s Nishiyama was the front range of the Shirane peaks—a mountain belt spanning some five to six thousand shaku nestled between the Hayakawa River to the east and the Fujikawa River to the west. Were one to stand on this pass, the Shirane peaks would appear within arm’s reach; if not as vividly present as Hotaka-dake seen from Shinshu’s Tokumoto Pass—where its form presses against one’s very eyelashes—at least one might glimpse a view akin to Komagatake from Hinoharu. The autumn hues of Hayakawa Valley must have been beautiful indeed. Yushima’s hot springs too must have offered comfort. To Nishiyama, ever to Nishiyama—when fastening paper to my sketchboard, when procuring fresh paints, even in nightly dreams—my thoughts raced toward those unseen slopes and Shirane’s eternal snows.

I departed Tokyo on November 1st, a morning veiled in faint mist, with the moon hanging in the western sky. The wheat fields around Nakano were hazy; through two or three pine trees, Mount Fuji appeared dreamlike in the haze—what a tender scene it was, I thought, gazing upon it without satiety as I journeyed past. Kobotoke, Yose, Saruhashi, Ōtsuki—though the autumn foliage here still showed its colors a touch early, even places ordinarily devoid of interest revealed an allure too compelling to disregard.

Emerging from the long tunnel came Hatsukano; between here and Shioyama lay where the Shirane peaks should be visible.
I moved my seat to the left and pressed myself tightly against the window.

As expected, the snow-clad Shirane peaks stood fully exposed against the boundless blue sky, their entire forms sharply defined. A water-laden autumn sky; snow as pure white as ice—struck by the sublime spiritual majesty of these mountains, I could not help but shudder. I had forgotten that the sketchbook was in my sleeve. I thought it was no longer necessary to go all the way to Nishiyama.

The snow-capped mountains vanished and reappeared time and again because of the tunnels. Each time they reappeared, I wiped the fogged glass and strained my eyes, determined not to let even an instant of their presence escape me. Three times, five times—until finally they vanished completely—and when the train carved a great curve and I saw the unsightly summit of Mount Fuji to the south, I felt as though awakening from a dream. And never have I seen Mount Fuji look as ugly as it did at this moment.

At half past twelve, I arrived in Kofu and immediately became a passenger on a railway horse-drawn carriage.
It was a carriage on the verge of collapse.
The horse, unaccustomed to the carriage, would plant its feet and refuse to budge one moment, only to suddenly break into a gallop the next.
To the right of the carriage lay the hills of Nishiyama; through their uneven gaps, a white mountain could occasionally be seen.
Before reaching Nanko, we proceeded along the embankment following the river for a short distance.
Straggling evening primroses swayed forlornly in the wind.
The willows, tinged a rusted hue, also bent to the wind.
I thought it was a place with a somewhat pleasant view.

I passed through the town of Aoyagi.
As there was to be a festival soon, they hung eaves lanterns and decorated everything beautifully.
A wide riverbed where willow giants of intriguing form faced the water, several standing in a row; crossing the long, railing-less bridge spanning it brought me to Kajikazawa town.
I lodged at an inn called Konaya on the right side.

Exactly three-thirty.

From the second floor, Mount Fuji was visible.
Its form remained unimpressive.
What makes Mount Fuji beautiful lies in its sweeping foothills.
When only its summit showed with the base concealed, sharply ridged peaks like Mount Kinpu appeared far more striking.
The mountain may hide its crown, but it must never obscure its skirts.

Behind the inn rose mountains immediately, with shrines and temples visible on the high ground, their trees growing thickly. The autumn foliage’s colors were splendid; the view from the mountaintop must have been excellent. I asked the inn clerk to arrange a laborer for tomorrow’s journey to Nishiyama. The maid O-Take explained the scenic beauty of Nishiyama in exhaustive detail; however, since she did not mention that snow-capped mountains could be seen from near Yushima, I felt somewhat uneasy. I slipped into dreams while listening to an amateur gidayū performance from the neighboring house.

Three

At 5:30 the following morning, we departed Konaya.
The sky was thinly overcast yet bright with lingering moonlight.
Stepping on slightly damp earth in fresh straw sandals felt pleasant.
We traced a narrow stream where mouse-gray willows peered into water; our path climbed incrementally—crossing rivulets and skirting rice field banks—until we met a man leading his horse toward morning labor and a woman in red obi bound for harvest work; all while pale sunlight began piercing through clouds that gradually thinned overhead.

A large black gate came into view ahead on the path. Freshly cut rice bundles leaned against five or six pillars; the laborer said, “This is Komuro’s Myohoji Temple. The main hall burned down a year or two ago—it was splendid, such a shame.” We entered the gate. Houses lined both sides. An inn stood among them. Dogs barked in chorus.

We passed through the temple gate but did not proceed further in; taking the path to the left, we walked along the ridges of the mountain rice fields. The shapes of the houses were interesting, the forms of the forests and groves appealing—I thought this would provide material for four or five days.

The path gradually became steep.
Winding right and left, we climbed.
Above, the sound of wind through pines; below, the rustling of fallen leaves underfoot—with only these, all of creation lay in profound stillness.
The sky gradually cleared, and the scorching sun beat down on our backs.
Our bodies were soaked with sweat.
I removed my overcoat and had the laborer carry it.
I removed my jacket and carried it myself.
At every bend in the mountain pass, we would rest.

We had climbed quite high.
When I turned to look, Mount Fuji had come into view unnoticed.
Unlike when viewed from the Kofu Basin, it now carried an air of grandeur.
The white riverbed stretching like a single ribbon at the foot of the mountains was the Fujikawa River, and the area where faint smoke rose was Kajikazawa, the laborer indicated.

By the roadside was a small pond called Shichimen Pond; through dense thickets of withered reeds, a little muddy water could be seen.
This area was a larch forest; the leaves had taken on a faint hue and were fluttering down to the ground.
The ground was invisible beneath dark green moss and fine fallen leaves; as I walked upon it, a sensation—lightly springy yet damp—seemed to travel from my toes all the way up to my belly.

After leaving the pond, we entered hills covered with stunted trees and pampas grass where nothing blocked the sun; the heat grew fiercer than before.
Due to the laborer’s mistake, when we strayed three or four chō down a grass-cutting path and had to retrace our steps, it was somewhat irritating.
Here and there stood large fir trees.
Mount Fuji loomed ever higher and ever larger.

After walking three and a half hours from Kajikazawa—a journey of three ri—we arrived at a place called Detcho’s Teahouse.
At the summit of the pass—this must be where one writes *emerging peak* or *absolute peak*, I supposed.
The teahouse stood on a flat area slightly in the mountain’s shade—merely a single shabby hut. Before the house, assorted trees gathered from nearby mountains were artfully arranged like potted plants.
Inside the pitch-dark house lived a couple with two or three children.
I found myself wondering how these children managed to get to school.
In the darkness were many bentwood containers.
Apparently, they made candy from millet to sell as souvenirs.
I ate one rice ball, sipped bitter tea, and rested here for a while.

Four

Beyond the teahouse, though the path was all downhill, my steps were sluggish—perhaps from having walked little of late—my toes ached, my calves throbbed, my knee joints burned, my thighs screamed, until finally even my lower back began to hurt; I pressed onward while steeling myself against the thought that things would be like this from now on.

The path followed the mountain’s base; keeping the dark valley continuously to our left, we pressed onward. The autumn foliage, its branches stretching out like a sheltering crown, displayed a beauty beyond compare. Ahead towered Genji Mountain, dense with evergreen trees. Behind us lay the path we had just traversed; in the distance, Mount Fuji revealed its summit. Passing Genji Mountain’s mid-slope, the mountain range along the Hayakawa River spread out before our eyes, and the faint sound of water reached us. Slender white birches came into view here and there. When we rounded the grassy mountain’s protruding edge, a snow-capped peak resembling a spread bat-wing umbrella appeared in the somewhat cloudy western sky.

The long-awaited snow-capped mountain—my legs had become as if rooted to the ground and refused to move. Before me stood five or six young birch trees in resplendent hues; behind, the warm mouse-gray Hayakawa mountain range traced two, three overlapping contours—and emerging above them all, the snow-capped peak: Shirane! Shirane!

The laborer did not know that name. I consulted maps as well, but since it lay too far south, this couldn’t be Kitadake. It wasn’t Nōtori either; I wondered if Akaishi might be visible beyond the Ōi River. I later learned it was Mount Warusawa in the Akaishi Mountain Range.

Our path was the new route; from the direction of the old Shichimawari Pass, it was said that the Shirane peaks could be seen quite clearly. Looking forward to that view, we pressed onward. When we descended a steep slope, we emerged at a riverbed. After crossing the bridge and seeing the water far below once more, we wound our way northward.

The sound of the valley stream could be heard in the distance. Several thatched roofs were visible on the opposite bank. That was Kamiyushima, they said. A long suspension bridge stretched straight ahead into view. Japanese maples, paulownias, mulberries, and other planted trees could be seen scattered along the path. In the burnt fields, pitiful millet and beans had been cultivated; villagers here and there were harvesting those grains. Smoke from burning bean stalks rose in purple wisps, dissolving into the mouse-gray sky.

“We have about one ri left,” said the laborer.
The path was narrow, and angular stones that had slid down from the mountains covered every inch of soil.
On steep descents, their feet rode stone wheels, forcing them to dash several ken against their will.
My sketch box—which the laborer had been carrying on his back—slipped free from its binding cord and clattered down into the ravine to our left.
With a start, I peered down and saw it caught on tree roots some ten-odd ken below.
The cliff’s slope was too steep for them to descend.
After making a long detour to retrieve it, I had momentarily despaired my task was finished—yet they finally succeeded.

Descending closer to the river and turning right brought us to an uphill slope.
The roar of the Yukawa River was deafening.
Looking up revealed a large three-story house; on the cliff to the right stood another new dwelling visible against the slope.
What lay before us was Furu-yu; what lay behind was Shin-yu. I had the luggage unloaded at Shin-yu’s entrance.

Five

A young maid wearing a navy-blue kimono with a short hem appeared.
Passing along the long, black-lacquered veranda, we entered one of the new second-floor rooms I had first noticed—a crude space with a low ceiling, no walls, and uneven tatami mats, but being new, it proved tolerable enough.
The innkeeper approached and said, “Mr. Kojima stayed in this room too. When the Alpine Club members came in force this summer, they used this room and the neighboring one.”
Thinking this was the very room where a dear friend had spent many nights, I felt an inexplicable nostalgia.

The sunlight that had blazed upon the shoji screens at our 2 PM arrival vanished behind the mountain ahead within thirty minutes. Even now during this season, they said sunlight graced this valley merely an hour daily—come wintertime, not a single ray would touch it through those months. I imagined how bitterly cold that must feel.

They lent me a yukata whose hem miraculously reached my ankles—a rarity indeed. Being taller than most, I'd always assumed rental yukatas came tailored strictly to knee-length.

The bath was located near the entrance, spanning about five or six tsubo; divided into two sections, with hot water cascading abundantly from a bamboo gutter near the center.
It was beautiful like melted jade, but being slightly lukewarm, one had to soak in it endlessly.
There was neither a washing area nor a single bucket; with no water anywhere in sight, it was a dreary place.
The innkeeper assured us that even tepid water wouldn’t give one a cold—that bathing here even cured colds when you had them. The two or three hot spring guests from nearby entered the bath again and again, lingering in the water endlessly.

The long hibachi—since its creation, they had likely never once cleaned the ash within.
So spotless one could swear no ash had ever sullied it—yet this very abundance of fire and charcoal brought without reserve became one of the few comforts on this chill autumn journey.
I did not touch the partially frozen tea receptacle provided by the inn.
After drinking a cup of the "Cocoa" I had brought with me and lying down my freshly bathed body, I felt quite content.

Standing on the veranda and looking west, I saw mountains looming oppressively close while far below faintly glimmered the waters of the Hayakawa River.
The suspension bridge spanning the Yukawa River came into view.
Autumn colors still lingered early; only cliffside undergrowth flaunted its fiery hues.
When I opened the rear window below me lay Furu-yu's building with Yukawa River cascading waterfall-like behind it.
From southern heights too came water roaring beneath my window.
This narrow valley offered none of Kamikochi's luxury—no snowy peaks visible from hot springs—making me resolve to view Shirane from Shichimawari Pass come morning.

From here, it was thirty chō to Kamiyushima, one ri to Shimoyushima, and one and a half ri to Narada, they said; though mail was delivered daily nowadays, it apparently took four days from Kofu to arrive.

Six

That night I slept soundly.
The next day dawned as *Tenchosetsu*, the Emperor’s Birthday—a flawless sky without a wisp of cloud.
I washed my face at the waterfall basin behind the inn, fastened a rice ball to my waist, and ascended Hirabayashidō Pass; after countless switchbacks through scrubland trees lay a slash-and-burn field.
I entered the woods again.
Suffering through sweltering heat while climbing fourteen or fifteen chō northward—there suddenly appeared a snow-capped mountain.
They said it formed part of Shirane’s range called Shirakawadake though its name still eluded me then.
The higher I climbed, more peaks unveiled themselves.
My legs burned yet I drove myself upward.
The mountain that had first shown white and triangular now bared its rocky skin.
Ochre landslide scars emerged across slopes.
Urging “Just farther—just a little farther,” another white peak revealed itself southward—Mount Akusawa seen yesterday.
Climbing further still until I’d covered over one ri at last—three or four hours I sketched fiercely with a great beech tree framing foreground.

The sun moved southward, turning snow shadows pale cobalt.
The front peak shifted to deep ultramarine.
Nearby loomed a colossal tree with half-fallen leaves, its jagged branches draped in Spanish moss that clung precariously.
From dawn till now, I had met no one.
No beasts crossed my path, no birds sang - daylight in these mountains held deeper silence than midnight.

When I finished sketching, the sun hung low.
Retracing my path for over ten chō, I paused where mountain hues interplayed with foreground colors to make one final sketch before returning.
Though not yet four o'clock, lamplight already glowed.

Seven

The fourth day was cloudy.
I hesitated, thinking it might start raining any moment, but went out around ten to see.
First I headed down to the banks of the Hayakawa River—a mere two or three chō away—but the steep stone path and puddles along the way made it impassable in geta.
I had to arm myself not only with leggings but also by wearing straw sandals.
Descending the slope revealed an abandoned house where no one lived.
Tall grass grew thickly; before the house lay a suspension bridge woven from wire, with a single narrow plank placed at its center.
In summer they said hot spring guests would come every evening to swing it for fun, so when you set foot on it the bridge swayed unsteadily—crossing even just four or five ken of planks wasn’t a pleasant experience.

After crossing over and forcing my way down the collapsed left cliff, I found a small riverbed. When floating logs downstream from upstream—as they caught on shallows and dammed against rocks—several mountain people came down with the logs to push them toward the water's center. The path trod by those people left its marks on sand and rock edges. It must be what they call slate. Crossing a large black rock flaking thinly revealed crystal-clear water flowing swifter than arrows at its edge; blue stones and red stones lay scattered about. With mist-veiled mountains upstream and crimson-stained forests along both banks, it seemed a beautiful autumn painting could be composed.

I do not care for choppily flowing water.
The upper reaches of this river are called Norogawa, where the water—it is said—flows quietly, quietly like oil while bearing mountain shadows upon its surface; I wanted to paint such a place, but lacking the courage to venture two or three ri deeper under these skies, I finally resolved to open my sketch box here at this riverbed.

The sky gradually darkened, and the water’s color glistened like lead.
The mountains, their fog now cleared, occasionally revealed their summits.
I drew water from the stream flowing at my feet into my brush washer and painted mouse-gray clouds and pale green rocks.
Before I had even reached the halfway point in applying color to the painting, scattered drops of rain began to fall, scattering the vermilion on the palette in my hand and dissolving the purple hues. I held up an umbrella and endured for a short while, but with no sign of the rain letting up, I reluctantly returned to the inn.

That night, through the heavy rain, the landlady returned from Aoyagi.
In this area, children up to about six or seven years old are called boko; taking two such boko along, she had apparently made the seven-ri mountain journey to Aoyagi for an overnight stay to view the Tenchosetsu festival.
The maid O-Yoshi went through the pouring rain to meet them at the Ame Tea House over one ri away on the pass and complained how hard it had been carrying the boko on her back on the return.
O-Yoshi was a straightforward, hardworking girl from Hirabayashi, they said.
The maid called O-Haru, who had accompanied the landlady, also returned.
When I asked, “Was the festival fun?” she grumbled with no small discontent: “Between carrying the boko nonstop on the way there, back, and even in Aoyagi itself—there was nothing fun about it! I felt like my body would break apart.”

Eight

Late autumn was supposed to be a season of little rain, yet even on the fifth day, it still fell.
In the dimly lit guest room, I spent my days tinkering with sketches and reading books.
I looked through Ruskin’s biography.
I read Tolstoy’s What Is Art.
Around noon, a young man came asking me to buy a rabbit.
Having grown weary of monotonous side dishes, I promptly purchased it for thirty sen.
The man talked about various nearby mountains before leaving.

At noon, they boiled and brought the rabbit for me.
The landlady grumbled incessantly about its cost as she set the pot on the brazier; I paid no mind to such complaints.
Compared to salt-cured trout or sinewy beef stewed in yamato style, this proved far preferable.

To fend off boredom, I visited the hot spring repeatedly.
The bathhouse ceiling held a window of about one tsubo, left unshuttered so rain fell directly into the water; the entrance too stood open, framing the valley's autumn leaves in their rain-soaked hues.
While immersed completely in the hot water, I felt supremely content; yet upon emerging, I shivered violently from the cold and found myself wishing it had been just slightly warmer.

On rainy days or at night, trips to the toilet were somewhat troublesome. Leaving the main house required walking twenty ken along a narrow cliff edge—and even that path wasn’t particularly clean. At times, there were no geta. Even when available, they were damp and unsettling; at night, the lone lamp would often be extinguished, forcing me to inch forward in terror of plummeting into the valley.

Nine

On the sixth day, it finally cleared up.
I bundled my gear and set off toward Narada.
White clouds raced fiercely across the sky, and it was a somewhat chilly morning.

The autumn of Hayakawa Valley was now at its peak, with the colors of plants and trees beautiful everywhere.
Following the narrow, narrow path—sometimes emerging into dim cedar groves, sometimes into bright areas of dazzling autumn foliage—about halfway from the inn, a landslide had cut off the path.

Looking closer, across an expanse of forty to fifty ken, boulders and smaller stones had formed a massive rock slide.
From hundreds of jō above to tens of jō below the valley floor, the slope—at nearly eighty degrees, almost vertical like a waterfall—had gained such momentum that even the slightest vibration sent rocks clattering downward. The first stone would multiply into ten, then a hundred, then a thousand, each emitting terrifying cries as they ceaselessly sought to bury the valley.
Every five ken, boulders as large as huts peered down into the valley, poised as if awaiting but a single nudge to send them tumbling.
What a terrifying sight this was!

When I shifted my steps diagonally across the worn undergrowth, a path leading to the opposite cliff became intermittently visible. They must have sought out what few footholds remained and trampled them firm across the collapsed section. Those traveling from Yushima to Narada, and those coming from Narada to Yushima, must hurry along this path. If one of those large rocks above were to shift while they were halfway across, they would have no choice but to become demons of this Hayakawa Valley.

"A wise man does not approach danger," as the saying goes.
I thought of turning back there.
"If you do not enter the tiger’s den, you will not catch its cub," as the saying goes.
I resolved to press onward.
And if I reached Narada, I might glimpse the snow-capped mountains.
My craving to behold those snowy peaks finally drove me through that treacherous path, cold sweat pouring from me like three to of water as I passed.

Fortunately, it passed without incident, and I looked back; when I realized that on my return journey I would have to dare undertake this perilous path again, I trembled with dread. After proceeding four or five chō and rounding a mountain corner, I found a thick, massive beech tree. Through its dark branches stretched an unearthly beauty—the bright mountain colors visible beyond. I stood there for a while, but since it seemed impossible to capture it in such a short time, I reluctantly gave up and pressed onward.

When I descended near the stream and climbed up again，scattered thatch roofs came into view; among them were also plank roofs weighted with stones.
White walls came into view，wheat fields and mulberry fields came into view—this must be Narada，the innermost village of Hayakawa Valley.

When I entered the village, four or five children came out.
All of them stared up and down at me with wide eyes.
Some shouted, “Foreigner! Foreigner!” while others wondered, “What’s that?”
One bold child stomped over unceremoniously and demanded, “Who’re you?” When I asked, “Can you see the Shirane peaks from here?” they fired back: “Y’here t’see Mount Take? Y’got glasses? What’s that thing y’got?” Showing them the tripod—“This is a seat”—only prompted more: “Y’gonna sit on it ’n’ spy Mount Take through a glass?” Without ever answering whether the mountains were visible, they all trailed after me in a shuffling pack.

Ten

After leaving the village of twenty or thirty households, Ashigura Pass lay to the right.
It was said one must climb the pass and travel over two and a half miles before the mountains would come into view.
But if instead one entered the valley upstream to the left of this river, the Shirakawauchi mountains could be seen.
Having been advised this route was preferable, I proceeded along the Hayakawa River.
After four or five chō, there stood a suspension bridge—now damaged beyond crossing.
I descended to the riverbed and crossed a precarious plank bridge to reach the opposite bank.

As I proceeded along a single path used by farmers to reach their slash-and-burn fields deep in the mountains, the western bank's peaks abruptly bent at an angle; with the sun behind them, they appeared a deep, deep purple. Before them, where the path met its course, several young larch trees stood towering—their vivid bright orange hues as though truly ablaze.

With a start—as if entranced—my hands unconsciously reached for the sketch box.

The narrow path had a cliff on one side and a mountain on the other; I found no place to set up my tripod.
Thinking there would be no passersby, I sat down in the middle of the road.
I had once seen and known the beauty of larches' fresh greenery by Karuizawa's banks.
As autumn colors went, I had found their lonely yellowing dear—whether at Fuji's foothills or near Kajikazawa during this journey.
Yet I had never imagined such vivid colors as those now before my eyes could exist.
To mountain lilies, pea flowers, white birches, and rhododendrons that I favored most among plants, I resolved at this moment to add one tall tree: the larch.

After wielding my brush for about an hour, I proceeded further upstream.
After five or six chō, the path entered the valley to the left.
There, parting from the main stream of Hayakawa, I proceeded deeper along this stream—in places where the banks ended, perilous ladders had been erected.
In some places, a single log had been laid across the ravine as a bridge.
Even in such remote mountain recesses, slash-and-burn fields existed, where pitiful beans and millet were cultivated.
Further in lay a hut where they made geta.
The life of mountain people was one fraught with hardships.

Though I walked and walked, the Shirakawauchi mountains remained unseen.
Thinking that if I climbed higher might bring revelation while wiping sweat from my brow only revealed another densely wooded fore mountain looming before me like an oppressive crown.
The path grew increasingly unstable until dissolving into mere grass; anxiety about returning before dark gnawed at me; my legs throbbed with fatigue; though pained by unseen peaks finally compelled retreat.
Having backtracked twenty chō near the original stream crossing sudden light revealed larches transformed - their deep forest blazing amber where afternoon sun struck from behind.
Sunlight filtering through their bases rendered trunks ink-black while leaves glowed translucent through what seemed thin varnish coating each needle - beauty beyond earthly measure.
Paint it - must paint it - fingers fumbled at tripod straps until awareness of crumbling return-path cliffs brought urgent restraint leaving brush untouched.

The perilous cliff path passed more easily than when I had come, and near Yukawa I resumed the sketch I had begun two days prior.
Two days ago had been cloudy; today was clear.
The conditions differed, but as the sun dipped and the valley darkened—with the water’s hue appearing unchanged—I resolved to force myself and complete the work despite the strain.

I walked a rather long path that day; my knee joints ached.

Eleven

In Shimoyushima lived hunters named Omura Kohei and Nakamura Sohei.
These were men who had guided Mr. Usui’s group time and again into Shirane’s depths.
Kohei now lay bedridden by palsy.
Sohei remained occupied with mountain labors.
Sohei’s younger brother Sotada had joined that summer’s alpine club expedition across Akaishi as a porter.
This same man worked as a carpenter and had recently come to Niigata for employment.
From gathered mountain lore I learned that ascending some one and a half ri up from Shimoyushima’s opposite bank would bring one to Rokumanhira—a vantage said to reveal not only Igawa’s peaks, those Shirane sentinels, but even distant Akaishi beyond.
Judging we might depart at dawn and return by dusk, on the seventh morning I resolved to take Sohei and make for that place.

It was a clear day.
Entrusting modest luggage—sketch box, drawing board and such—to Sohei’s back, I proceeded downstream along the Hayakawa.
Along the path still bloomed crimson takeishi flowers, pure white wild chrysanthemums, and pale purple scabiosas—each vivid in its distinct beauty.
Descending to the riverbed just before Kamitoyushima revealed several landslide scars.
The path lay uneven.
Where Hayakawa’s waters pooled in dammed depths or surged as cascades—each offered worthy painting subjects.
Keeping the long suspension bridge to our right without crossing it, we walked seven or eight chō until spotting farmhouse roofs through a blackened cedar grove—mulberry fields, a waterwheel, and a brook marking Shimoyushima village. Following a stone-walled path brought us to Sotada’s house.

The village of Shimoyushima had seen nearly all its households suffer fire damage several years prior; consequently, every house stood new.
While Kamitoyushima had many thatched roofs, here they built wooden houses with stones placed atop their roofs.
Though small, the houses boasted thick pillars thanks to the abundance of trees.
What passed for a village held scarcely any flat land, with wheat cultivated on gentler slopes.
Large rocks lay scattered throughout the fields.
Around the houses clustered hoe handles, carrying poles, and geta clogs—rough-hewn in the mountains and piled beneath eaves.

Sotada had prepared himself; thinking there might be game, he also carried a rifle.

When we crossed the Hayakawa, there immediately rose a steep slope where fields had been cultivated, their wheat still pale green.
We walked along the stone path, through the grass, until reaching the mountain dense with mixed trees.
The path lay buried under fallen leaves—some still white with morning frost, others melted into damp patches.
The footing proved treacherously slippery, slowing our progress.

Given the mountain's sheer incline, the path zigzagged sharply left and right.
After crossing a small stream and walking fourteen or fifteen chō, the trees grew sturdier; even the conifers changed in character.
Seldom trodden and chilled by early cold, the path lay buried under two to three feet of leaves.
Each step crunched loudly through the dry layers, our legs moving as if swimming through them.
To compound matters, the leg pain I'd carried since leaving the inn two days prior grew unbearable on this steep trail.
I climbed while sipping "cider" brought from the inn for sustenance.
The sickly-sweet, syrupy "cider" tasted vile—at such times, nothing compares to cold spring water. Nature gives mountain dwellers this pure gift freely where artificial drinks fail.
At last we reached a sparsely wooded area.

From across the ravine came a clattering of rocks tumbling through distant trees.
Sotada climbed a tree stump to peer intently.
"Antelope or monkey," he muttered.
The clatter echoed sharply through the silent wilderness.
He claimed to spot an antelope with its fawn—too far for his bullets to reach, he lamented.
The area called Sawagawa-no-ne showed slight flattening—remnants of a six-shaku-wide logging road from years past when a company had clear-cut here.
Though now too eroded for passage, faint traces of the old path remained visible.

Above the Nishiyama mountain range, Mount Fuji stood tall and clear.
To the north overlapped the Jizō Yakushi mountains; Maedake’s massive collapse shone white like lingering snow, while slightly west, Shirakawauchi’s peaks emerged vivid.
There I finished lunch, attempted a sketch, and rested briefly.

Rokumanhira still lay half a ri west. Sotada fretted that pressing on would allow only a glimpse—sketching there would mean returning to the hot springs after dark.
Night descent along treacherous paths was ill-advised.
If a hut stood nearby, I resolved to stay overnight and reach Rokumanhira at dawn.
Hearing of Sohei’s hut midway downslope, I whipped my aching legs into motion and began descending.

The leaf-strewn path proved even harder to descend than climb, each step threatening to send us sliding. My heart pounded violently several times as we turned right onto our original path and reached Tombonoya hut around three o'clock.

Twelve

Tombonoya hut stood halfway up a sheer, cliff-like mountain one ri from Shimoyushima village; they had cut into the base of a massive rock to carve out a mere half-tsubo of space, with the remaining half-tsubo jutting precariously into empty air.
An extremely small—and extremely dangerous—structure.
Even considering the topography of this area—which lacked even a single tsubo of flat land—one could infer the steepness of its gradient.

This was the remotest slash-and-burn field from the village; being too far removed, they had constructed this crude structure merely as a refuge from sudden rains during fieldwork and as a base for overnight farming during the shorter days.
Slash-and-burn agriculture meant cutting down mixed-tree groves in autumn and setting them ablaze in spring.
Then, using the thick trunks left unburned, they built fences at intervals of one or two ken to serve as retaining walls; gradually flattening sixty-to-seventy-degree slopes bit by bit into fifty- or forty-degree inclines, they cultivated buckwheat, millet, barnyard grass, and beans—wheat and such simply wouldn’t grow.
If they were to step away from this charred log fence, they would find no foothold and be unable to stand upright.
People from countries without mountains likely imagine fields as flat.
I, too, was once among those who thought so.
The people here must assume that fields naturally lie on slopes.
With neither rice fields nor ponds, and seeing how the Hayakawa and Yukawa flowed like waterfalls, they likely did not consider water to be something flat.

In slash-and-burn fields, the burned ash serves as fertilizer, allowing crops to grow for three or four years.
After that, they leave the fields as they are, and seventeen or eighteen years later, they repeat the same process all over again—or so it is said.

Sotada announced he would go to Yushima before nightfall and bring back provisions for tonight.
“If you’re going to Yushima, buy some cheap sweets or something,” I said.
“There’s nothing like that in the village,” he replied.
“If sugar would do,” I suggested.
“No one’s home has that except at New Year’s or festivals,” he retorted, then declared “I’ll return quick as can be” and ran off like a monkey toward the foothills.

The entire autumn Nishiyama area blazed under the three o’clock sun, glaringly radiant—there might be evergreen greens, black rocks, yellow millet fields—yet under the intense evening light, all appeared monochromatically crimson.
Amidst that brilliance, Tombonoya hut—situated precisely in the mountain’s shadow—stood starkly dark, its intriguing outline etched as if cut out and pasted there.
Near where a rabbit snare had been set, I erected my tripod atop a large rock; folding one leg beneath me and balancing in that precarious posture, I attempted to sketch here.

Thirteen

The Nishiyama mountains, which had blazed with light, gradually deepened in shadow and grew chilly, so I ceased sketching and made my way along the narrow path to the hut; inside waited Sotada’s father, who had kindled a fire for me.
He had even drawn a barrel of water from the distant valley floor.

The hut’s roof was shingled with planks topped by laid logs.
Its perimeter was fenced with susuki grass and millet stalks.
Near the entrance sat a hearth roughly three feet square, while straw mats covered an area no larger than one and a half tatami mats around its crooked bend.
At the rear, a shelf carved into rock held sparse utensils—pots, bowls, a small hand lamp.
A grease-stained futon lay in the corner.
The old man spread out a straw mat that was not wholly unseemly.
I untied my sandals and stretched my legs freely for the first time.

As dusk fell, Sotada returned carrying a bag of rice and miso on his back. Since it was cramped here, the old man announced he would stay in the lower hut and descended carrying a bag containing something. Sotada washed the rice in the pot, placed it over the fire; once the rice was done, he poured it into a deep water bucket, then dissolved miso in the same pot and added unpeeled potatoes to make miso soup. My curiosity took no small interest in Sotada’s tasks.

Footsteps sounded outside; when I opened the door and peered out, Sohei, Sotada’s older brother, was returning through the darkness. He had been working in the mountains near Rokumanhira but returned because he was concerned about clouds that had appeared in the evening—or so he explained. What were clouds? After going to the trouble of lodging in the mountains, rain would be a nuisance—but there was no helping it.

The three of us began our meal; since there was a little oil in the hand lamp, we lit it.
The sketch box served as a tray, and the brush became chopsticks.
Two chipped-rim bowls—one heaped with rice, the other filled with soup.
The Nakamura brothers took out lunchboxes they called menpa, poured soup over the contents, and brought their chopsticks to their mouths.

The potato soup, its tubers still clinging with soil, became a delicacy to an empty stomach.
We devoured three heaping bowls of rice and finished our meal without even drinking hot water.
The menpa in their possession were oval lacquered lunchboxes produced in the Mino region, coming in capacities of two gō five shaku and three gō.
When heading into the mountains, they would carry two or three of them.
Hearing that their usual daily intake was seven or eight gō, rising to one shō when working, I marveled at how they managed such quantities even with meals of millet or barnyard grass.

Fourteen

An autumn night in the mountain hut.
As I recalled Turgenev’s A Sportsman’s Sketches, I contemplated how to enjoy this poetic night—one unlikely to be encountered again.
How delightful it would be if a deer were to call near the window.
I thought it would be delightful to skewer the rabbit meat caught in the snare and grill it over embers while sharing stories.
The hearth fire burned pleasantly.
We each stretched our legs out long, engrossed in tales of mountains, villages, and even the capital, unaware of time's passage.

Nakamura Sohei spoke while stuffing tobacco into his brass pipe; though it wasn't a particularly interesting story, in such a time and such a place, even that was listened to with deep fascination.

The story began with a hunting tale.

“In the past, antelopes, deer, wild boars, bears, monkeys, and wolves all came near the villages—their numbers were abundant—but nowadays, they rarely show themselves,” he said. “Monkeys still come to steal beans from the mountain fields, but their numbers have dwindled.” He paused to relight his pipe. “A few years back, a hunter from Shinano caught a large bear in these mountains—during the struggle, it tore off part of his cheek. Sold the beast for a fortune, he did. But after spending eighty-five yen on patching his face...” Sohei exhaled smoke through his nostrils. “In the end, all he got was three or four months’ rest before returning to work.”

The conversation shifted to Yushima Village's economy.

In this impoverished village, their crops amounted to a meager assortment of wheat, millet, barnyard millet, beans, and scant vegetables—yet even so, they managed to subsist on what the village produced.
All were mountain fields, and once boys reached twelve or thirteen, they ventured out to these fields daily during summer.
There was no sugar, no sweets, no fruit—the children of this land were pitiable.
In summer fields they sought wild strawberries; in autumn mountains they searched for akebia vines and grapevines, content with faint, faint sweetness.

Household life was simple; where soy sauce was lacking, barley miso took charge of all seasoning.
They likely didn’t even know bonito flakes existed in the world, nor did they have pickled plums.

Even with the Hayakawa River, fish were scarce.
The village was poor in this way, but it was not without natural blessings.
From Yushima’s hot springs they collected some tax revenue every year; from the Hayakawa River in winter came gold dust.
Due to inconvenient transportation, there were no financial burdens; though poor, it was said not a single soul lived in hardship.
These brothers too each carried a pocket watch.
Sotada’s house too had a large grandfather clock.

In this way, they didn’t eat proper food, yet everyone remained robust; there were no doctors, yet no sick people either.
In both Narada and Yushima, they boasted that there were hardly any failures in the conscription examinations.

They knew no cattle; they knew no horses. Rickshaws, carriages, automobiles, steam trains, electric trains—such things they had never seen. When they spoke of “vehicles,” they meant waterwheels; lacking even small boats, steamships and warships existed only in their imaginations through pictures. Of course, unless one ascended to Shirane’s summit, even the sea remained unseen.

A mere thirty ri west of Tokyo, there still existed villages that remained as they had been in days of old.

Fifteen

The conversation took a serious turn until night had deepened to eleven o'clock.
When I asked about the toilet, they told me there was a board facing the valley from this hut.
"You do your business from on top of it," came the explanation.
By the light of a wax match I managed to climb onto the board, only to find myself at a place rivaling sheer cliffs—two protruding logs topped carelessly with a single thin plank forming a latrine more outlandish than even those at Oze Marsh. I hesitated before this contrivance.
Looking up revealed not a single star.
Through true darkness where neither cloud movement nor faintest breeze could be detected, only the distant gurgle of Hayakawa River's current faintly reached my ears.

Thick logs of firewood were added in abundance; they each lay down, jostling for space in the cramped quarters.
Sohei and Sotada, out of consideration for me, slept huddled together near the entrance.
Their pillows must have been the menpa.
The questionable striped blanket that Sotada had brought was spread over the two of them.
Still wearing the thick woolen coat whose coarse-knit yarn had made them exclaim in surprise when they handled it, I cautiously spread out whatever bedding was available.
The pillow was on top of the sketch box along with new straw sandals; since my head ached, I laid gloves on it, but the box kept sliding about, making for an uncomfortable arrangement.

All of them kept feet thrust into the hearth, though drawn in slightly.
When the bonfire began dying down, someone would rise to add firewood; it crackled, sending up white smoke before flaring suddenly. Startled feet withdrew—only to eventually slip back into ashes, scorching tabi sock tips.

The hut had no flooring; straw mats lay spread over dirt that sloped toward the valley.
Keeping feet in the hearth meant heads naturally tilted downward—a head lower than feet being anything but comfortable.
My body slid cliffward inch by scraping inch until I felt bound for Hayakawa Valley’s depths, each near-fall shattering sleep’s embrace.
Insects crawled from collar to hands—that whole area prickled with itch.
I turned right-side down; left-side down; tried lying supine; at times legs shot out unbidden, kicking firewood to scatter sparks that startled me awake.

The Nakamura brothers snored but seemed far from deep sleep, rising repeatedly to keep the fire from going out.
Thanks to their efforts, I felt no cold at all.
Rain pattered against the wooden roof.
Though not falling heavily, it gave no hint of ceasing soon.
Igawa's mountains—why must they shun meeting me?—left me sinking into melancholy.

Sixteen

The roughly propped-up grass door at the entrance; faint light seeped through its gaps—dawn had broken sometime during the night.
I got up and went outside, but a blanket of fog obscured everything.
The Western Mountains, the Eastern Mountains—needless to speak of such distant sights—even the water bucket at my feet remained indistinct.
It was terrifyingly thick fog; heaven and earth had been painted a bright mouse-gray.

I couldn’t wash my face; with just a bowl of water to rinse my mouth, I went back into the hut.
Sotada began cooking rice.
After transferring the water to the bucket, Sohei took over cooking; when I looked, he was adding about one shō of millet into the boiling water.
In the villages they add a little wheat, they said, but up in the mountains it’s nothing but millet.
When I asked what it tasted like, they told me it was passable while warm, but once cooled, Tokyoites probably couldn’t stomach it.

This morning there was no soup; I finished my meal with two pieces of spicy miso pickles. For a while, I sat around the bonfire observing the weather conditions. The fog showed no sign of lifting. By the stream’s edge, near the woods, a bird sang with a clear, piercing voice. I felt spellbound by the pleasant mood. Neither Kabukiza nor Yaozen were needed. I thought it wouldn’t be so bad to spend my entire life here like this. But that wouldn’t happen—I concluded this fog wouldn’t clear until past noon. Regrettable though it was, I resolved to abandon Rokuman-daira and return to the hot spring inn.

We hurried downward through the fog. The surroundings suddenly brightened—and just as a distant mountain seemed to reveal a corner—it darkened again at once, obscuring the woods directly ahead. With each step, the sound of the Hayakawa Valley’s waters grew louder, until before we knew it, we stood before Sohei’s house.

The rain suddenly began to fall, so we borrowed a Western-style umbrella and returned along the fog-laden grassy path to the hot spring inn around ten o’clock.

Since I hadn’t returned last night, the inn had apparently considered sending out a search party; however, given that Sotada was with me, they concluded I had likely stayed in Yushima and ultimately called off the search.

Even if lukewarm, the feeling of having entered the bath was not unpleasant.

Seventeen

On the ninth, though cloudy with no sign of rain, I resolved to sketch the small stream at Yushima Riverbed that I had scouted the previous day and set out around nine o'clock.
Before reaching the suspension bridge to Kami-Yushima, retracing my steps slightly along the riverbed revealed Wakasugi Forest, beneath which flowed a narrow stream.
The autumn grasses veiling and crowning the stream held beautiful hues.
There I began a vertical-format sketch and spent four to five hours.

I had planned to depart on the tenth, but upon rising in the morning found myself compelled to abandon the plan due to a ferocious downpour—though just last night a sky full of stars had glittered—autumn skies, I mused, were not to be relied upon.

The once-clear waters of Yukawa had turned turbid; Hayakawa had shifted to a brown hue, its volume swelling severalfold with savage force.

The merits of Yushima Onsen lay in its mild climate permitting prolonged autumn foliage viewing and the inns' unpretentious atmosphere; its demerits included the inconvenience of needing to arm oneself even for brief outings, sluggish postal services, and prices that could hardly be called low.

As night fell, a gale blew fiercely, rustling treetops and swaying branches; the crimson and golden leaves—likely scattered without trace into Hayakawa’s current and carried far, far southward—I sank into sleep imagining how this valley must have been transformed into winter overnight.

Eighteen

On the 11th，between gaps in the mist，patches of vivid cobalt sky became visible.
We left the inn at eight-thirty；since they said it went up to the pass，I entrusted my luggage to one of the inn’s young attendants.
Avoiding our previous route，we crossed Nanamagari Pass，emerged at Ike no Chaya，and made for Kajikazawa.

The pass we had ascended on Tenchōsetsu—following that same trail through what people typically describe as extreme zigzags，often called “ninety-nine switchbacks”—here truly numbered over two hundred.
Unfortunately，the fog shrouded the southern sky，and not a trace of the snow-capped peaks could be seen.

After about four kilometers, the path became a hemlock forest; the soil was sodden with a clammy dampness, creating an unpleasant sensation.
Intermittently, white fog would roll up from the foothills, making the space between trunks appear several chō apart.
After crossing the pass and descending a short way, I parted with the young man; from here on, I would shoulder the considerably heavy equipment alone.
Everywhere was fog; even a few meters ahead remained indistinct; the loneliness felt immense.

This was likely a phenomenon caused by the extreme cold following the rain.
The branches of the roadside trees, with their beads of rainwater all frozen, looked as though adorned with crystal, appearing extremely beautiful.
On the tree leaves, the fog had turned to dew; the dew froze into what resembled crystallized sweets, clinging to the branches.
Startled perhaps by the untimely presence of a person, a mountain pheasant burst forth from a nearby thicket.
The flapping sound in the distance was likely a pigeon.
Wisteria vines entwined around a large beech tree; leaping and darting here and there among them was a squirrel.

Pushing through the bamboo grass and proceeding along a single path, I came upon a new house ahead—this must have been what they called the Sweet Tea House. The door was closed, and there was no one there. Since they had gone down to Aoyagi and not returned, it was said they mostly stayed in the village during winter.

From in front of the tea house, the road split into three paths. One led to Ike no Chaya; another headed toward Detchō’s Tea House; the other went to Narada. I took the left path and headed toward Ike no Chaya.

The sky gradually improved, and at times the sun would suddenly shine. I traveled endlessly along the mountain path winding down the slope; with each gradual descent, my pace quickened.

When I had come about three ri from Yushima, I found a hemlock snag with fine branching and sketched it. In the bamboo grass nearby, one or two bush warblers chirped busily, unaware that a traveler here was wielding his brush.

I arrived at Ike no Chaya at 1:30 p.m.

Nineteen

Water had pooled in a depression on the mountain’s shadowed side—an irregularly oval shape spanning perhaps one tan, surrounded by a mixed forest, its waters blue.
O-Yoshi from Yushima had called it an awe-inspiring pond, but situated within this dead tree grove, it held no trace of grandeur or menace.
I left my luggage at the teahouse, stepped on the squelching withered grass at the water’s edge, circled around to the opposite bank, and opened my sketch box.

The dilapidated house faced the water, casting its dark reflection upon it; duckweed leaves drifted across the surface.
The sun hid behind the mountain’s shadow, and the wind traversing the pond’s surface was cold.
The tips of my toes—half-submerged in water—felt needles of cold pierce through my entire body.
When I involuntarily shivered, the pond’s water had already begun freezing from the edges; unnoticed, the house’s shadow vanished as the surface turned to ground glass.
Simultaneously, water on my palette froze into unyielding ice that refused to dissolve paint.
My brush tip stiffened.
With no recourse left, I abandoned my sketch.

Ike no Chaya was a single dilapidated house built at the edge of this cold water. When I opened the waist-high sliding door at the entrance and stepped inside, there immediately was a large sunken hearth. Inside the sunken hearth smoldered a log of firewood as thick as a telegraph pole. Suspended above was a jet-black iron kettle that could likely hold eighteen liters of water. The far wall had shelves where bowls, sake bottles, and the like were haphazardly lined up; the left side was pitch-dark and indistinct, likely the family’s sleeping quarters. Here too they perhaps sold candy—small bentwood boxes were stacked in a corner.

The landlady drew hot water into a basin; to my completely frozen feet, nothing could have been more pleasant.
The room I was shown to faced the pond—a space that could barely be called a tatami room, with a token alcove and merely five or six mats laid out, lacking both shoji screens and sliding doors.
There was no ceiling either.
Not only that, but the roost for dozens of chickens occupied part of this room, suspended high from above.

On top of five or six folded and stacked futons rested a pillow made from a roughly cut square timber, with a small rectangular futon—soiled and shaped like a tanzaku—tied to it.
On the pillar behind it hung a large new clock—incongruous in such a house—showing 3:00 p.m.
In the alcove, reverentially displayed side by side, were portraits of Their Majesties the Emperor and Empress, beneath which was printed the Imperial Rescript on the Declaration of War from the thirty-seventh year of Meiji.
And from the alcove’s lintel hung a soot-blackened lamp with a broken chimney, dangling forlornly.

The master couple had two children; their elder daughter was about six years old.
This "Boko"—called by the name "Yoshie"—was quite the character.
To the small brazier, she brought burning embers.
“We gotta give Officer somethin’ or it’ll be bad—so cold out—if we don’t give ’im a fire, it’ll be bad,” she said.
Anyone wearing Western clothes was an officer.

Twenty

As Yoshie said, in this biting cold, the meager dying embers simply weren’t enough.
As ash swirled up, I approached the sunken hearth without removing my hat.
To kill time—thinking I might sketch this character—I took out my sketchbook.
The landlady saw this and shrieked, “Yoshie, hide quick! I won’t have you sketched making such an unsightly face!”
“If word gets back to Tokyo that ‘Boko of Ike no Chaya’ looks like this, it’ll be trouble! Change into your kimono this instant and come here!” she ordered.
“The yellow-checked silk one? Yay!” Yoshie cried with delight—and thus began a great commotion.
“Tomorrow! I’ll do it tomorrow!” I hurriedly stowed my sketchbook into my sleeve.

The master held the small "Boko" and cooked rice at the sunken hearth.
The landlady washed taro roots to prepare soup.
And she threw them into the pot with their skins still on.
Salt-grilled trout had been prepared, but I had no use for such things; together with the inn’s people, I finished my evening meal by the bonfire.

The master suddenly began, “There’s a man from Hirabayashi who went to Tokyo some years back—but Tokyo’s so big, you wouldn’t know him.”
“Is he a famous person?” I asked. “He fled the village under cover of night after some failure,” he said.
The figure of two million was beyond the comprehension of these people.
They might think of Tokyo as merely a slightly larger version of Kajikazawa.

The landlady said, “I’ve no wishes left—just let me see Tokyo once before I die—that’s all I ask.”
The talkative “Boko” immediately chimed in.
“We’re goin’ to Tokyo! We’ll go to Tokyo, get real old and grow up big! When we’re big grown-ups, Mama’s gonna get all round!” she declared.

The conversation shifted from one topic to another—that nearly all of Hirabayashi village followed the Nichiren sect; that they returned to Hirabayashi each winter; that the cold concentrated peculiarly around the pond; that ice could be harvested from this pond, forming sheets over two shaku thick when frozen solid; that newspapers placed beneath ice a shaku thick remained legible through its clarity; that henceforth sunlight would no longer reach this house daily; that snow would pile quite deep; how years prior, when an itinerant storyteller from Tokyo came recounting Sakura Sōgo’s tale and claimed snowfall had reached over two shaku, hotheaded youths had bellowed “Liar! This ain’t the mountains!” and thrashed him in outrage.

“There were years when snow piled two shaku deep in parts of Tokyo too,” I remarked. The master burst into uproarious laughter: “Heh-heh! Then that poor storyteller really got a raw deal!”

The landlady persistently offered me malt syrup from her wares, wrapping the sticky product around chopsticks.
“Yoshie Boko” had been working her mouth nonstop, but finally relieved herself from the floorboards to the earthen entryway before scampering off to bed.

“I won’t have you catching cold,” said the landlady as she brought out neatly folded futons, stacked them several layers thick, and spread multiple covers over me.
With no nightwear available, having only removed my coat, I lay down fully clothed.
The wind blowing through gaps in the shoji windows—unprotected by storm shutters—carried a piercing cold.

Twenty-One

It was less comfortable than the Hayakawa mountain hut.
The pillar clock tolled ten, then eleven, then twelve.
The mountain night stood silent, each second carved by the clock's needle resonating with crystalline clarity at my ear.
Then one o'clock chimed.
From the roost directly above came the first cock's crow.
Dozing fitfully yet never missing a single stroke, I passed the night through two and three o'clock.

The window grew light.
The lamp was extinguished.
White smoke rose from the sunken hearth.
Everyone got up.
Just like the previous night, they finished their breakfast while warming themselves by the embers.
Yoshie pressed her mother, demanding she bring out the yellow-checked silk.
She hadn’t forgotten yesterday’s incident.
Amidst her busyness, the mother took out a razor to shave Yoshie’s face, tied her hair, and fastened a red ribbon.
The cotton yellow-checked silk had been slipped onto her before she knew it, with the Yuzen muslin obi tied in place.
She laid out a zabuton cushion, plopped down primly, and thrusting out her chin declared, “Mr. Officer, you’re gonna draw me now!” before stacking both hands on her knees.

A dire predicament—this model’s pushy demands—but I couldn’t very well refuse now.
I took out my sketchbook and made a quick pencil sketch, daubing reds and blues here and there.
By some quirk, the likeness turned out striking—her parents were more delighted than the girl herself.
I tore the page from my notebook and handed it over.
It was a frigid morning; the pond ice measured two full sun in thickness.
Outdoors lay pure white frost.
When I climbed the front mountain, Mount Fuji stood clearly visible.
The snow glowed faint crimson under morning sunlight while mist enshrouded the forepeak, its entire surface steeped in deep, profound hues.
I hurriedly set to sketching.

When I finished sketching and happened to turn westward, through a clump of trees I caught a glimpse of a snowy peak. Unexpectedly—seeking a higher vantage point—I looked around and spotted a large grassy hill behind the teahouse; in restless excitement, I scrambled up it. There was no path from the start. Parting the dead grass and pushing through the bear bamboo—suddenly, two rabbits sprang from underfoot. I paid no heed to such things and continued upward. Sweat streamed steadily. The bear bamboo gave way to a mixed forest of deciduous trees. Vines entangled; thorns snagged sleeves; burrs clung from coat to trousers until the ground was no longer visible.

I finally managed to reach a considerable elevation. I set up the tripod in the grass at the base of a hemlock. Before me lay Akuzao and Akaishi, while closer to the right appeared the familiar form of Shirakawauchi. The rest were unfortunately blocked by nearby hills and remained out of sight. In about two hours, I descended the mountain.

“Mr. Officer’s yellow-checked silk is covered in burrs—we’ll brush ’em off for ya!” declared Yoshie, bringing a broom taller than herself. They ate lunch by the hearth. It was the same taro soup as last night. Last night and this morning too, in the dim light I hadn’t noticed anything amiss, but when I looked in daylight, mud had settled at the bottom of the bowl.

Twenty-Two

It must have been past one o'clock when I left Ike no Chaya. Though it was now an ordinary downhill path, burdened by my heavy pack I advanced in starts and stops; wild chrysanthemums and trailing gentians bloomed in profusion along the way, their beauty undeniable. Here and there, I saw larch groves. Though their colors paled in comparison to those in Narada, there were not a few spots that made me yearn to take up my brush. Having traveled over two ri from Ike no Chaya, I arrived around four o'clock at an inn called Ebisuya in Hirata.

“When we’re busy with farmwork, my daughter-in-law’s laid up with a cold.
“We’ve been neglecting you terribly,” muttered the sixtyish old woman repeatedly as she brought water for washing my feet.
I was shown to a ten-mat room in the back; though it had clearly been a fine inn in its day, the workmanship wasn’t bad.

In the front of the main room, Mount Fuji was visible.
It was a clear evening, and the white snow emerging against the emerald-green sky was dyed crimson.
Moment by moment, before my eyes the colors faded until they turned pale purple; by then the sky had deepened into indigo darkness, while two or three stars shining at zenith seemed to signal to one another with their twinkling that tomorrow too would bring clear skies.

The old woman who brought the tray and rice container said, “Please enjoy your meal,” and withdrew just like that.
When I looked, this too was old-fashioned—there were flat bowls and jars, and indeed no mud had settled in the soup.
Having finished dinner pleasantly, I retired to bed early that night.
As a result of having bathed twice daily in Yushima, there was no bath that night either.

Twenty-Three

The 13th was lightly cloudy; Mount Fuji appeared hazy.

Hirata Village nestled against mountains to the west and north, its eastern side opening out expansively.
The village stretched in a long, gradual slope from entrance to exit, and since a river ran alongside the road, the arrangement of bridges, the appearance of stone walls, the style of houses built above them, along with water channels and waterwheels made for an intriguing scene.
When looking up from below, one could see a temple atop the hill, wheat fields stretching across the slopes, and here and there streams cascading white as waterfalls.
When looking down from above, one saw rice paddies where the village ended, fields stretching beyond, and across Fujikawa River’s gravel beds—the passes of Misaka Onnazaka and others chaining upward until Mount Fuji emerged atop them all.
There were grand vistas, but small subjects for sketches were countless.

I went toward Washio Shrine—the village guardian—and climbed two hundred stone steps before reaching its main hall. Several great cedars—the pride of Kai Province and its villagers—pierced the heavens, forming a divine, secluded realm where not a single bird sang.

I sketched Mount Fuji before the shrine.
The autumn-tinted mixed forest right before me proved challenging.
Leaving that behind, I sketched a white-walled storehouse beside the village's waterwheel.

In the evening, I returned to the inn.
It being the busy farming season, there was no one at home; even after removing my straw sandals and returning to the main room, neither fire nor tea appeared.
They hadn’t noticed the guest’s return at all—such was their easygoing way.

The next morning brought clear weather. Mount Fuji, viewed from where I stayed, was beautiful.
The old woman brought a bowl of flower-viewing sugar for the morning tea.

Twenty-Four

On the 14th at 8:30 a.m., I departed Hirata and descended along the river at the mountain's edge; after about one ri, I came upon the village of Tsukumai. A village of twenty to thirty houses—its roads and scenery held nothing particularly remarkable, but the willows along the river were so splendid that I set up my tripod.

The river held almost no water. Four or five willow trees along its bank stood in a row, their leaves a bright orange. The background showed the plains of Kai Basin where low mountains lay faintly veiled in mist, while the sky tinged with a faint crimson harmonized perfectly with both mountains and trees. Wherever I looked, colors glowed splendidly. The shrine forest stood dark and deep in shadow; stream water gleamed white in sunlight—all adorned by autumn's palette. Though Nishiyama's summit—not particularly lofty—now belonged fully to winter, autumn clung stubbornly to a corner of these foothills; even the grasses along the path bore its hues.

With Aoyagi Town visible far to the left, I walked along the embankment.
The colors of the zelkova rows held an unrivaled beauty.
At the embankment's end stood a bridge—the entrance to Kajikazawa—where I sketched the willows once more.

I returned to Funaya at two o'clock in the afternoon.

I went to look around where the Fujikawa River boat service departs, but there was no place picturesque enough to sketch.

The 15th was cloudy.
At seven-thirty, I boarded a carriage and headed for Kofu.
The Shirane peaks peeked out intermittently; fellow passengers remarked that from near Kofu, Mount Tate in Etchu could be seen.

I boarded the 11:00 train departing Kofu and headed east.
The clouds thickened, so the Shirane peaks could not be seen.
The autumn foliage along the road had perhaps passed its peak slightly; the colors were poor.

When viewed from the train window，any scenery appears well-composed．
Each window becomes a splendid picture．
Then，between Kofu and Tokyo，one might think tens of thousands of paintings could be created；yet upon actually alighting from the train，suitable subjects prove surprisingly scarce—why should this be？

There were various reasons why scenery viewed from a train window struck one as interesting wherever one looked.
There were conditions that made each scene appear like a painting.
The presence of a frame, the speed of movement, and viewing from a distance—when the train was stationary, the view became far less clear.
The presence of a frame prevented the composition from scattering, much like viewing through a viewfinder.
Because it moved swiftly, only principal elements caught the eye while intricate details passed by before one could properly see them.
It was likely because distance created depth—that spatial profundity—and because one’s elevated position revealed broad vistas; combined with the train’s speed, these factors made scenery appear well-composed.
While I pondered such things, before I knew it, the train had arrived at Shinjuku.

(November 1909)