Pathway to Japanese Literature

In early August, the Shinano Highlands experienced the most dramatic transformations of the clouds.
The shadows of the mountains encircling Kikyōgahara alternately darkened and brightened, their green hues gradually taking on a blackish tinge.
The sunset clouds blazed crimson to purple or yellow, their resplendent beauty now displayed in full glory.
This was also the season when great whirlwinds—counted among this plain's marvels—arose.

Under the overcast sky, the clouds hung heavy; as far as the eye could see, the green hues appeared deeper than usual; the wind carried a slight dampness, but since the dew weighing down the roadside grasses was heavy, there seemed little chance of rain for now.
They were attempting to enter the Kiso Road by skirting a corner of the plain's southern edge from Shiojiri Station.
The road was the main thoroughfare of the Old Nakasendo Highway and extremely flat.
To the left, mountains loomed close, and at their feet, small villages dotted the landscape.
To the right stretched intermittent pine groves and grasslands extending far into the distance; on clear days one could see Matsumoto's urban area appearing small at their extremity, while beyond Azumino rose Mount Ariake, Byōbugatake, Yarigatake, Jonengatake, Chōgatake, Nabekanmuriyama and others crowded together, presenting mountains whose depths defied measurement—yet today more than half of these silhouettes lay wrapped in clouds and remained invisible.
Only a patch of blue sky glimmered faintly ahead of us where the clouds parted.

During this season, there was no stretch of the Nakasendo Highway where one could avoid hearing the tinkling bells of white-robed pilgrims.
It was these Ontake pilgrims—chanting sutras while planting their pilgrim staffs—and if travelers proceeded accompanied by their bell sounds, they would find themselves entering the Kiso Road before they knew it.

The first post station at the edge of Kikyōgahara is Seba.
The Naraigawa River—one of the headwaters of the Saigawa—flows near the rear of the station, while mountains press in slightly, imparting the distinctive character of a mountain post town that first catches the eye.
The station on the sloping road showed an extremely dilapidated state.
After passing through Seba, the dilapidated states of Makino, Motoyama, Hinode-shio, and other post stations all appeared similarly forlorn; yet every household bustled with sericulture, and along the way we continually encountered several groups of men and women returning from mulberry picking.
This sericulture was the sole lifeblood of these mountain post stations.

Running through decaying mountain post stations, the Nakasendo Highway gradually made its way deeper into the mountains.
The clouds cleared, and the sun began to shine through gradually.
The mountain breeze was indeed cool, but when they thought of the long journey ahead, they felt profoundly uneasy.

Sakurawa, Wakakami, Niekawa, Hirasawa—they had often heard the names of these stations.
West of Sakurawa was already part of Nishichikuma District—a place that could be called quasi-Kiso.
There were students who came from these villages to Matsumoto town.
Whenever they received chestnuts sent from home, they would gather friends and treat them to a feast.
Afterward, they would always sing that familiar song—"In Kiso..."—to their listeners.
By then, there were also female students.
Ota, one of the companions, said she was his former student and stopped by her house.
The interior of the house was completely filled with silkworm shelves, leaving scarcely any space for people.
When they visited, from behind the thick central pillar—its black lacquer gleaming—emerged the head of an old man, who said that though the girl had currently gone mulberry picking, they must rest here regardless; detaining the entire group, he offered tea while lamenting the Nakasendo Highway stations' progressive decay and wondering aloud whether any revitalization measures might exist.

Narao Station stood desolate, as if crushed between the river and Toriitoge Pass. From here they would climb the ridge, for this crest formed the watershed between the Kiso and Sai Rivers.

When they crossed the ridge, Yabuhara's lodging lay on its midslope. Ah, houses selling wooden crafts and flower pickles lined the street. "Ah, Kiso’s souvenirs for those on the verge of the floating world." Thin wood shavings were peeled to create small wooden plates meant to be discarded after a single use. Each one had various elegant phrases printed on them.

From this Yabuhara station, many carpenters left for migrant work. For most days of the year, they crossed over the ridges to work elsewhere, so in households without their masters, each one typically kept horses. Known as Kiso horses, they were a smaller breed most suited for ascending and descending steep slopes. At most fourteen or fifteen horses, and there was not a single household that kept fewer than four or five. The care of them was entirely women’s work; during the day they would come to grasslands far from home to release the horses and cut grass themselves, and in the evening they would gather the released horses and return home. Twelve or thirteen of them came around the cliff in a line. The owner rode on the back of the lead horse, making straw sandals atop the saddle, while the foals chased after the parent horse—pausing to graze on roadside grass or letting out neighs as they came running. The parent horse too would stop, let out a long neigh in response, and one by one vanish into the evening haze.

When they exited Yabuhara's lodging, the road already ran along the bank of the Kiso River. Concerned about their legs' fatigue for tomorrow's ascent of Mount Ontake, they took a carriage from Yabuhara. As the carriage wound along the riverside, they found comfort in gazing up at the thickly layered verdure across the river.

“How wondrous is travel along the Kiso Road—leaves scattering onto your hat!”

Were this an autumn journey, one might have savored the lonesome charm of tracing paths through showers of wind-scattered leaves beneath a sedge hat; but now verdant foliage layered upon itself, every valley and peak steeped in the exhaled fragrance of fresh leaves.

The carriage driver was a spirited young man who kept proudly telling his companions about the many horses he owned.

“Why, in one breath—a good five ri stretch—there was a time they covered that in four hours!”

He continued boasting about his horses' strength—the afternoon sun glinted on green leaves, and pine cicadas buzzed loudly. Before long, white clouds welled up over the peak ahead. The sunlight vanished; green leaves began to rustle; across the river, the valley ahead suddenly darkened. Then thunder rumbled—the river's rapids seemed to echo it—and in an instant, large raindrops began to pelt down onto the ash-like sand-and-dust. The horse began to struggle; the driver tightened the reins. The valley roared and the mountains echoed; no sooner had the wind swept past than a torrential downpour assaulted them. With no houses to stop at, the carriage charged through the rain in a headlong dash. Due to the prolonged fine weather, they had made no preparations for rain gear. It leaked through the roof and blew in from the front. Even when they spread the sunshade curtain all around to protect themselves, they still got soaked through by the driving rain.

The carriage stopped abruptly, and voices rose from their group in discussion.—A man thrust his face through the sunshade curtain they had drawn around themselves. The first thing visible was his handlebar mustache; his unkempt hair fell past thick eyebrows framing large, intensely gleaming eyes. Faded indigo kasuri cloth clung to his muscular arms. He scanned each carriage occupant with a piercing gaze but uttered nothing before sharply closing the curtain and descending. Through a gap in the awning, they glimpsed him beneath the kasuri garment wearing yukibakama—dark cotton hakama like those of local farmers—while holding an umbrella. He turned toward the driver and raised his hand slightly. The carriage lurched forward again.

“What was that?”

The people in the carriage began to talk.

“Hey, driver! What was that just now? So sudden, eh?” While pulling the edge of the curtain slightly aside and turning his face away from the driving rain, he asked. The driver turned around slightly and...
“What’s it? He’s a detective, eh.”

“Detective? What sort of detective, eh?”

“Well now—just two-three days back, see—there’s this bastard who killed a forestry official up in the mountains and ran off. Word says he’s disguised himself as a monk or such-like, so they’re huntin’ him down, eh.”

The driver must have often encountered such matters, for he seemed unconcerned. The rain fell fiercely once more—the drumming downpour, water cascading from peaks, thunder unceasing. The carriage occupants hunched themselves, waiting only for clear skies. They couldn’t speak properly even if they tried.

They passed Miyakoshi, Harano, Ueda—all in the rain’s grip—until just before reaching Fukushima town, when the skies cleared. The setting sun struck distant mountaintops, indigo ridges faintly fragrant on the air. Fukushima lay nestled between river and hills—a pleasant town where talk of the forestry official’s killing had also spread. They stayed overnight in Fukushima.

For ten ri from Fukushima to Mount Ontake's summit, half the route ran upstream along Otagiri River's mountain stream. The path through these hills consisted of ascents and descents that wound along banks of verdant rapids through pine and mixed forests, at times peering down into abysses below. Groups of five or ten—twenty or thirty—they never failed to encounter white-robed pilgrims coming and going. They crossed the Otagiri River once at the pass between Kuwabara and Sawatari. The bridge spanned from a gently sloping point to a steep midslope mountainside where giant trees—oak, zelkova, and beech—thrived. Beneath it flowed calm water that seemed bottomlessly deep. Once across this bridge, the path entered deep forest where dim light filtered through thick growths of massive tree roots crossing the trail—roots that made tripping frequent. Emerging from woods onto grasslands, they crossed Kuzuregoe Pass and continued along mountainsides keeping the Otagiri River visible far below their feet. Mountains piled upon mountains while between them the river meandered like something asleep. It felt as though they glimpsed visions from another age. Descending again and recrossing the river brought them to Otaki Village—the First Station of Mount Ontake.

From Otaki to Tanoara (Sixth Station) along the ascent, huts had been built at each station where one could lodge.
The pine forests ended; the mixed broadleaf forests gradually disappeared; and the landscape transitioned into an ancient moss-covered beech forest.
Rain clouds loomed overhead, and from around the Third Station, it finally began to rain.
The forest held only mist and rain; birds called out in the rain; daylight faded; and the four travelers—utterly drenched—arrived late at Tanoara Inn.

They left Tanoara Inn at four in the morning; using the torchlight that the porters carried ahead, they climbed through the creeping pines. Thick fog came swirling in. The wind arose—it was quite fierce. Moreover, the cold was severe; as night faintly brightened, the pine torches had gone out at some point. As the sky grew light, the distant landscape came into view. A purple sky—its vividness unlike anything they had ever seen. A beauty glowing with bellflower-blue light—beneath which the peaks of clustered ridges appeared to float—but this splendid view vanished in an instant, as clouds swept across to shroud everything. The wind was quite fierce. Over the creeping pines, a ptarmigan was carried off by the wind.

They reached the summit hut at five o'clock, warmed themselves at its hearth, and climbed up to Ken-ga-mine. When standing on Mount Ontake's highest peak clinging to a rocky outcrop and facing the fierce wind blowing up from Jigokudani below, they could hardly breathe. With the wind came surging clouds that instantly enveloped both rocky crags and hut alike until every trace of the First Pond, Second Pond, and Third Pond that had been visible moments before vanished completely. This billowing and swirling of clouds showed phenomena utterly unseen in the world below. Yet in an instant the clouds parted to reveal Norikura and Yarigatake—the jagged peaks and towering summits extending from this mountain range—with the crests of the Japanese Alps' continuous ridges appearing in striking clarity as though freshly roused from slumber. I had heard one could reach Norikura's summit along these ridges by traversing this desolate realm of wind-lashed peaks shrouded in cloud—a place where no soul dwells. I desperately wanted to go see for myself.

However, the path we now intended to take was not this traverse of steep ridges; rather, we aimed to plunge through fierce white clouds and descend what is called the backside trail into Hida Province.

The Hida Route meant taking the path to the right from the mountain hut at the peak, skirting the shore of the Second Pond and descending through rough beds of small stones—there being no proper path to speak of.
The fog had grown denser; were even a light rain to fall, distinguishing the route would become impossible.
The bear-like master of the summit hut warned, "Ain't safe out there—gotta be real careful goin'. Just keep headin' right, always right—follow them stone piles an' you'll manage," but even the porter who'd guided us from Fukushima turned back toward Kiso where the mountain began its descent from Second Pond into the backside trail.

Mount Ontake's backside!
They had heard that some climbers came via the Hida Route each year, but beyond that, it remained a path without travelers.
Looking up at Ken-ga-mine to their left, they passed through Sai-no-Kawara from the pond’s shore.
A vast field of stones—a plain of countless scorched rocks, both large and small.
Even so, over the years, only the areas where climbers' straw sandals had brushed against the ground had become worn, forming a faint white line resembling a path when viewed from a slight distance; yet upon approaching and stepping onto it, one could no longer discern where it led—the only markers were small stones piled here and there, meager guides at best.

Sai-no-Kawara was quite long; the shadows of clouds drifted across it, alternately brightening and darkening its expanse.
The path ahead looked utterly precarious.
When they reached the top of the riverbed, they entered a vast expanse of steep creeping pine terrain.
The path wound like a narrow thread along perilous cliff edges, proceeding while overlooking a deep ravine.
It was a path where not even a moment’s inattention was permitted; in the ravine below grew not a single tree or blade of grass.
Only reddened scorched rocks lay scattered about; not a sound of water could be heard.
Around the ravine, mountains that had never borne human footprints since time immemorial stood clustered in endless succession.
They were merely desolate mountains.
Nevertheless, the clouds gradually cleared away completely; the blue sky shone crystal-clear as the warmth began to intensify.

Around the time they thought they had descended about two and a half miles, crossing several valleys of creeping pines, a faint smoke became visible in the distance.
"Are we already in Hida Province?" he wondered, feeling somehow as though they had entered a strange land.
It was indeed Hida Province.

No sooner had they emerged from the creeping pine zone than the path grew steeper still, plunging into dwarf bamboo thickets.
They descended through dwarf bamboo taller than their height, rustling through it as they went, though the footholds were carved into step-like ledges one after another.
Within these indentations pooled rainwater that scattered with each step.
Parting the bamboo thickets with both hands meant losing sight of those ahead once three feet separated them.
When they paused, only the rustling sound remained.
Suddenly sensing brightness, they looked up to find shorter bamboo allowing sunlight to flood their faces.
Among the thickets bloomed yellow rhododendrons here and there, their heads poking through.

Running down through the dwarf bamboo thickets, they entered a forest of hemlock firs and similar trees.
However large the trees might be, their trunks measured no more than an armspan around, yet moss grew thickly on every trunk, and lichen strands hung from the branches.
Among them were some that stood dead and white as bones.
Others had withered, fallen, and lay crisscrossed in the grass.
They leaped over and stepped across the fallen trees as they descended, but the steepness was such that it felt like sliding down a vertical board.
To avoid falling, they could not help but keep their feet constantly moving.
They continued leaping down without pause.
If they let their guard down even slightly, the figure of the person ahead would vanish into the grass or beneath fallen trees.
When they stopped and called "Hey," a voice answered "Hey" from far below—nothing but a voice, yet it echoed with an eerie, dreadful resonance.
The air within the forest had rarely transmitted human voices.
The ears of those listening had also grown strangely distorted.
When these calls of “Hey… Hey…” ceased, there remained only the desolate silence where they became acutely aware of their own heartbeats pounding loudly.

The sound of a mountain stream echoed from far below, but though they descended and descended, they never seemed to draw any closer. They descended and descended, yet it remained nearly the same vertical path. Their knees ached, and their vision swam. Could there be anyone who would actually climb such a path? And once they descended it completely, where would they end up? The sound of the water continued to be heard at the same intensity.

When they thought they had descended two or three ri, suddenly the sound of a mountain stream reached them nearby, and the path made a sharp turn to the right. The deep grasses parted, and they emerged at a mountain stream where a log had been laid across. Thinking that inhabited areas must now lie far behind, they sat down on a fallen tree to rest when one of their delayed companions finally caught up; the figures of the two who had gone ahead were nowhere to be seen.

“Hey, you—could the ones who went ahead have taken the wrong path?”

“Nah, they’re fine—no way they could’ve taken a wrong turn.”

“Yeah, you’re right.”
When they exchanged glances, both their faces looked strangely pale.
Their voices rang out with an uncanny clarity, and they couldn’t muster the will to converse.
Somehow, the roaring of the mountain stream seemed to grow increasingly louder, making it impossible to remain still any longer; they set off running again along the winding path through the forest.

This time, compared to before, the roar of the water could be heard even more loudly.
Could it be that they were getting near Nigorigawa Hot Spring?
Though the sound of water could be heard, the forest showed no sign of ending.
The steepness of the path remained as severe as ever.

When they thought they had run for about an hour, a single thatched roof came into view along the river's edge. Ah—this river was the upper reaches of the Masuda River; that house must be Nigorigawa Hot Spring. They had finally arrived in Hida Province.

Hurrying along the riverbank, they crossed a precarious bridge and emerged before a house. Steep, tree-covered mountains rose before and behind; a solitary house nestled between them faced the mountain stream. Though built with rugged timber alone, its roof stood thickly thatched.

“Hey, you took your time,” came a sudden voice.

Startled, they looked over to find someone suddenly poking their head out from a hut on the left. When they looked closer, it was one of their advance party members.

“Come quick—feels amazing,” he called.
Approaching, they saw a sizable bath filled to overflowing through bamboo pipes—water gushing and splashing as it cascaded over the edges—apparently an alkaline spring.

They kicked off their straw sandals, stripped their clothes, and hurriedly plunged into the water. A gentle warmth enveloped them; resting their heads on the bath’s edge and stretching out their legs, they found the morning’s departure from Tahara Inn, the summit’s white clouds, and the steep back mountains all dissolving into dreamlike obscurity.

After exiting the bath, they immediately climbed up from the bathing area to a second floor spread with coarse straw mats. There were no doors—just rough-hewn boards left in their natural state. The four were resting naked on the straw mats when, from the stairway entrance, appeared the face of a woman with hair carelessly tied back.

“Would you care to eat something?” she asked, her teeth blackened with iron-based dye.

“Is there anything to eat—river fish or something?”

“We don’t have river fish or such, but there’s rice and soup.”

“Then that’ll do—hurry up and bring it.”
What they called rice was gritty with sand; what they called soup reeked of soot. To make matters worse, it tasted like drinking brackish water. These “mountain vegetables” were nothing but wild greens used to flavor the broth. The rice was so coarse that even the hungriest person couldn’t manage two bowls. As for how many ri remained to the nearest inn—

“Well now—if you go to Nishidō, there’s no inn before that. Four ri it’d be.”

“Four ri? That’s a breeze—what’s the path like?”
“Much like what you’ve just come down…”

“No need to rush.”
“But there is some difference.”

Four ri of precipitous slope—were they to descend by stepping over tree roots? He had put on a bold front by calling it a breeze, but in truth was inwardly at his wit's end. To make matters worse, the sky had clouded over. If they were caught in rain now, it would prove truly miserable. When they went to descend from the second floor stairs, they found the door firmly shut with a small wooden placard above reading "Forestry Official's Chamber." He found it strange that even such a house maintained a special room.

At the entrance appeared a man who had brought provisions from the village, around whom four or five people now clustered in animated chatter. A large man with one bulging eye stooped over straw bags, examining packed leafy vegetables. There was the housewife from earlier and an old woman of about sixty. There were two or three young men. Leaning against the entrance pillar was an eighteen- or nineteen-year-old woman with her obi sash hanging loose—her complexion ashen like dark soil, bearing little resemblance to a proper young lady. She raised tired eyes only to immediately lower them again to the ground.

“What could it be... hey, you?”
One of them whispered in a low voice.
“Well, that’s strange.”
“Forestry Official’s Chamber!”
Someone murmured quietly.
“Ah, that might be the case.”—Leaving this house behind, they crossed the bridge again and proceeded along a path of ceaseless ascents and descents.
The trees gradually grew larger; even among the same kinds of hemlocks and firs, those higher up thrived more vigorously compared to those below.
The valley stretched endlessly deep, the peaks towered limitlessly high—no matter how far one gazed upward, there was no end in sight.
Withered, fallen trees lay crisscrossed in decay across the terrain.
At first, sunlight filtering through the grove cast pale dappled patterns, but when cloud movements turned ominous, the forest darkened and the mountain roared thunderously.
Grass rustled incessantly while every tree lashed its branches wildly.
Just as they thought how utterly eerie it felt, two hulking figures abruptly emerged from the commotion—steadily advancing toward them through the narrow path.
Drawing closer revealed a man around forty wearing a black forestry official’s uniform.

“May I ask—how many ri remain to Nishidō?” he politely inquired. The forestry official stopped briefly but then stood rigidly, paying no heed to the group as he stared into some distant place, his posture suggesting he was listening intently. His complexion was ashen, his ears strangely large.
“Right—about five ri,” he said in a barking tone, his voice like something emerging from a hollow tree.
“Five ri?”
Ota was shocked.
At the previous hot spring inn, they had been told it was four ri, but even though they thought they’d come two ri already, he said it was still five ri.
The forestry official walked briskly away, having spoken abruptly.
A man wearing tube-sleeved work clothes and carrying a backboard-like pack followed behind; his figure soon vanished into the grass.

―At this moment, the mountains and valleys began to resound even more loudly.
“That’s strange,” several of them said.

“Something feels off.”

“Are they even human?”
A similar sensation ran through each of their chests.

They all turned around—they couldn’t help but look back at where those who had just passed had gone.

At last, it began to rain.

The rain of deep mountains—the rain of a primeval forest untouched by axes for thousands of years. At first intercepted by interlocking leaves, it gradually fell more fiercely—wetting the branches, wetting the trunks, wetting the grass—until the thread-like path they followed became soaked and finally seeped through their clothing. No matter how one looked up or hoped—only fog and rain remained. The sound of rain poured down into a deep primeval valley of unknowable depths. The silent form of mist coiled through ravines and blanketed forests as it drifted. In these deep mountains where no humans existed to impose order, with people rendered irrelevant—the fog and rain truly moved of their own accord.

Ontake stood as a grand mountain when viewed from Shinano, but its slopes facing Hida appeared nearly vertical. They made their way down along the midslope of that profound peak. A sense hung over them—how far must one go before reaching human habitation? Checking their watch revealed it was already four o'clock.
"Hey you,"
"This isn't any four- or five-ri path, I tell you."
"I don't know how many ri we've come—I'm exhausted."
They had indeed descended six ri through the rain. Everything they wore lay utterly drenched; even matches refused to catch fire; no method remained to smoke tobacco. All courage toward the external world had abandoned them. They couldn't voice complaints; scarcely any thought existed of where they went; no particular anguish pierced them either. Unconsciously, they kept moving their feet—step after step after step—pressing onward. Even the very concept of being "human" had slipped from them.

The path finally began to descend steeply; the forest ended, and they emerged onto a grassy mountainside. The change in their circumstances kindled a modicum of hope. The sound of rapids began to be heard in the distance—it must have been the main stream of the Masuda River. Hearing the sound of the rapids, the group was abruptly invigorated. The rain also lightened by this time, and mouse-gray clouds drifted from peak to peak. But gradually, they could feel the evening darkness drawing near.

Suddenly, from somewhere below the path came the sound of a horse neighing. Looking closer, they saw a black shape moving at the base of the grassy mountain.

When they called out “Hey!”, a voice from below responded with “Hey!”

“Is Nishidō near?” they asked. “Still about two ri!” replied the grass-cutting man, stopping his work and looking up.
Still two ri of path!
They could hardly help freezing in their tracks there.
When they came to their senses, the rasping sounds of grass-cutting came from here and there.
When they looked, there were two or even three groups of people leading horses on the path immediately above them.

When they asked, “Isn’t there somewhere around here where we could stay?”, he replied, “You must go to Nishidō—there’s nothing before that,” and watched them depart with a puzzled look.
There was no help for it—they decided to walk to Nishidō.

On both sides of the path stretched grass over four or five shaku tall.
The fog thickened and gathered gradually, creeping across the grassland.
Here and there came into view huts of various sizes—these had to be where the grass-cutting men lodged.

They passed through the grassland into a pine forest.
The path became level and wide, and they finally reached the bank of the Masuda River.
It was quite a rapid stream; they ran along its bank.
As their surroundings gradually darkened, there was no choice but to run—they began moving mechanically once more.
They walked almost in a daze.
It was unclear how many ri it was, but when the mountains grew lower and the land began to open up slightly, they saw a single firelight at the base of those mountains.
Dear firelight—never had they felt human dwellings so dear as in this moment.
They dragged their tired legs and ran.
They encountered a woman coming with a pine torch along the way, and it finally became clear they reached Nishidō.
They arrived at the inn they were told about after purchasing the pine torch.
In the center of the large house was a hearth where three or four large logs—each six feet long—were burning.

The inn’s old man welcomed them with a “Welcome.” Even the taste of cucumber juice could not compare to that of Nigorigawa’s hot springs. After satisfying their hunger and entering their beds, they found themselves unable to sleep—perhaps their exhaustion had grown too overwhelming. The sound of horses snorting could be heard not far away—suddenly, thoughts of the forestry official surfaced in his mind. What had become of him in the rain? Had he reached Nigorigawa tonight? Would a forestry official like him really be killed?—Such thoughts occupied his mind until he finally drifted off to sleep.

Enveloped in rain and fog, they descended six ri along the backside of Mount Ontake—where no human soul ascends—into Hida Province, spending that night in a mountain village called Nishidō.
Utterly exhausted, they fell into a deep sleep, completely insensible to their surroundings.
When they suddenly regained awareness, voices could be heard somewhere; the whinny of a horse pierced their ears.
It felt as though they were crawling out from a pitch-black hole where distant sounds seemed to reach them—clinging desperately to the edge with all their might while listening for those noises—yet constantly fearing they might lose their tenuous grip and tumble back into the void.

The voices and the horse's neighing grew increasingly distinct.
The room grew faintly visible in the dim light, and memories of yesterday's mountain path and today's onward journey surfaced hazily in their minds.
The other travelers all seemed to be awake as well.

They opened the door and looked.

The crisp mountain morning scenery!
Both clouds and fog had completely cleared during the night, and the pine-covered mountain loomed before their eyes as if tumbling forth, its base churned by a stream racing past with white foam.

The scent of fresh green grass assailed their nostrils.
Looking, they saw freshly cut green grass piled like a mountain in the courtyard before them, heaped upon the ground.
The grass would likely be thrown into the stable, trampled by the horses, and then used as field fertilizer; now unburdened of their heavy loads, the horses moved with newfound lightness, rippling their entire bodies as they plodded heavily ahead without anyone leading them, followed by young men and women in snow trousers and straw sandals bearing carrying frames on their backs—until they rounded the house’s corner and vanished from sight.

They descended into the garden, washed their faces with water drawn from the mountain through a thick wooden conduit, and wiped their bodies—then the chill mountain air pressed against their skin.
Looking up, they saw a deep navy-blue sky hanging over the peaks of mountains crowding in on all sides, while the morning sun bathed the entire pine-covered slope beyond the stream in crimson.

Today they would finally reach a place with proper streets.
Having walked through nothing but mountains for three or four days, human settlements felt achingly dear.
Today they would descend along the Masuda River's banks and enter Takayama town.

The sunlight gradually spread wider, shining from the peaks to the forests, narrow valleys, and even deep mountain streams below—everything within sight appeared vividly transparent.
The narrow path at the mountain’s base wound and wound its way above the valley.

After descending about three ri from Nishidō, they came to a village called Asai; the Nomugi Highway coming from Shinano had a wide roadbed, with electric poles standing in rows far into the distance. They felt as if they had met an acquaintance after a long time.

They passed through the village called Miza and crossed the small mountain pass known as Gujōne. Their field of vision gradually widened as stretches of rice fields came into view—at the far end of these rice fields, Takayama town must stand. The mountains, jumbled and irregularly blocking the way, gradually cleared to all sides, giving the impression they were reluctantly yielding a small foothold for human habitation.

Having crossed the pass four ri ahead, the white walls of Takayama town began to appear in the distance. The temple's bell tower towered high above the houses. They felt they could almost hear the town's sounds.—I recalled an old woman who used to come to my family's retreat house when I was a boy. Hida women often drifted into Shinano; all Hida women were fair-skinned with well-proportioned features. In a town near my hometown there was a pleasure quarter where many Hida women came. That old woman too had come to that quarter before being employed at my family's retreat house in her later years. Whenever free time allowed she would tell stories about Takayama town. Memories from childhood told by that old woman—of Shōrenji Temple's hall and Takayama Hachiman Shrine—gradually surfaced within me, giving me the feeling of stepping into a storybook land.

At the entrance to any rural town they visited, the houses lining the narrow road had low roofs accompanied by dark shadows, while carts, horses, children, and dogs bustled about—yet there was an oddly lonely air, evoking a kind of nostalgic travel sentiment.

Takayama town was more orderly and well-arranged than one had expected—a place teeming with vitality that captivated those who entered. A river flowed through the center, and bustling streets were laid out in a grid along its banks. In Hida there were many large mines; since all those involved with them came from Tokyo, Takayama town was said to be quite prosperous. Wherever one passed through, it evoked a sense of thriving fullness.

When night came, rain began to fall.
Holding umbrellas in the rain, they went to see the town, passing through streets lined on both sides by large houses with twenty-ken-wide frontages.
Crossing the main street revealed several side streets.
People bustled everywhere.
When they went out to look at the riverbank, water overflowed and rushed along.
Willows stood ranked at the bridge's edge, blurred by night rain.
Eaves lanterns from riverside houses flickered in reflections on the water.
A young man's vigorous voice carried across the bridge; beyond it, amidst thick willows, lights twinkled intermittently.
That willow-enclosed quarter was this town's red-light district.

Everything was bustling; I thought it lived up to its name as "Little Kyoto."

When I stopped by a bookstore, local picture postcards were available. Among them was a full view of Mount Norikura. I bought it and took it home.

Layer upon layer of overlapping peaks undulated endlessly, pressed down by Mount Norikura's snow-dappled ridges stretching far into the distance. Thin clouds characteristic of early autumn streaked diagonally across its summit in multiple trails. The mountain stood with truly majestic composure. I found myself unable to tear my eyes away from it.

Deep within the mountain ranges encircling the western Shinano Highlands, from between peaks layered countless times—this was the mountain that revealed its form robed in perpetual snow.
After the setting sun had sunk, wrapped in a pale purple hue that stirred distant, faint emotions as it descended beneath night clouds—this mountain too was that very one.
The mountain that boys of Central Shinano, from earliest childhood, would point westward to and first learn the name of—this was that very mountain.

The image I now beheld showed Norikura’s rear profile, cradled in a mother’s embrace,

Where has the young master’s wet nurse gone?

Crossing that mountain to reach the village…

The song they would make us hear every dusk—we had circled around to the backside of that mountain, and I felt as if we had come to a land of wonder.

That night, the four of them devoured delicacies they had craved during their mountain travels—fried river fish, sashimi, carp stew, fresh vegetables, beautiful apples, and potent sake—all seemingly endless in supply.

The next day brought another drizzle, but they departed as planned.
In their haste to leave, they sank their straw sandals into the mud and exited Takayama town.

The rain fell intermittently; just when the sun seemed ready to burst forth between showers, thick clouds suddenly gathered again.
The road gradually became steeper, pointing in a northeasterly direction as it headed once more into the mountains.
No matter where they looked around, small mountains filled their entire field of vision; the view refused to open up any further, leaving them with nothing but a cramped, confined sensation.

After traveling about one and a half ri, there was a mountain village called Bōhō.
There were paths leading from there to Kamata Hot Springs and Kamikōchi Hot Springs, but they decided not to take them, instead resolving to go through Hataboko toward Hirayu.
After traveling five ri, they came upon the village called Hataboko.
The mountains gradually grew more profound, and cattle carrying loads passing along the mountain path formed clusters here and there.
The sloping land on both sides of the road had been leveled into several small hemp fields.
The path up to this point had no particularly high mountains, offering nothing more than ordinary mountainous scenery.

From Hataboko onward, the mountains grew deeper, with great firs, hemlocks, and cypresses crowding the slopes. The path sank into deep mud where water pooled in cattle hoofprints, swarms of winged insects hovering over the mire to scatter upward in a flurry as people passed.
The narrow path twisted upward beneath the forest canopy, following the valley's edge.
A swish-swish sound—whether rushing water or wind through treetops—rose indistinctly; birdsong grew peculiarly clear, and the travelers naturally fell silent.

The rain stopped, and clouds began thinning.
Three ri of mountain path still lay ahead.

The dwarf bamboo gradually grew thicker and deeper.
The rain that had been falling until just moments before collected on the bamboo grass leaves, leaving even the gaiters soaked through.
When they looked ahead, the leaves of Japanese snowbells in the thicket had already turned red, hinting at autumn scenery.

One ri, two ri—they climbed onward, trampling through dwarf bamboo.
The fir forest grew densely thick, and no matter how much they climbed, it seemed endless.
When they looked back, peering through the gaps between the fir trees, plains spread with rice paddies could be seen here and there amidst the surrounding mountains.

The setting sun glinted through gaps in the clouds, its rays streaming forth.
A pale blue, mysteriously pure light slid across the dwarf bamboo.
The fir trees thinned out, brightening slightly, but when looking ahead, the forest still stood dark and densely thick.
Light streamed in, weaving stripes of illumination through it.

Whether someone had cut it down or it had fallen on its own, an old large tree lay fallen amidst the dwarf bamboo. They climbed, stepping over it repeatedly. From the peaks and valleys, clouds gradually parted as light scattered wildly. The transformations of natural phenomena truly inspired wonder.

Suddenly, from within the bamboo grass field ahead came a groaning sound. Groans echoed intermittently. They involuntarily halted. “What could that be?” The same question—“What could that be?”—was repeated among the four of them.

When they proceeded to look, something lay sprawled in the dwarf bamboo thicket.
On the fallen large tree beside them was a backpack frame propped up, with clothes rolled and tied to it.
Attached were a large-bladed saw, a hatchet, and a small gourd.

“Ah, a person!”
“There’s someone here,” the four called out as they scrambled up the tree to look.

An old man—a white-haired man around sixty—lay stretched out in the bamboo grass, face down and asleep.
“Hey! What’s wrong? Hey!” they called out, and with a “Mmm…,” he began to rise.
When they looked, he had a crimson face, letting out a loud “Aah” through a deep yawn as he rubbed his eyes.
Then, stretching his arms out long as he said, “Ah, that was some good sleep,” he looked toward the group and asked, “Where in the world did you folks come from?”

“Where from? Takayama, obviously. What’re you doin’ passed out here? Gave us a hell of a scare!”

“Ah well—took a swig ’n came up here fired up. Felt too damn good ’n dozed off... Hah...”

“But it’s already getting dark, isn’t it? Where are you headed?”

“Ah, well, tonight it’s just to Hirayu. Tomorrow I’m headin’ back to Shinano.”

“But there’s still quite a ways to Hirayu, isn’t there?”

“Ah, it’s just ’bout one ri from here—see? From this point on it’s all downhill runnin’.”

“Then let’s go together, old man.”

“Aye, I’ll go ’long—heave-ho! Spendin’ days in the mountains keeps a man peaceful... Come mornin’, might finally see my old woman’s face again after so long...”

“Where’ve you been till now, old man?”

“Well, been up in Hida’s mountains, y’know—Hida’s such a tiny little country. Now I’m headin’ back to Shinano.”

“Do you prefer Shinano?”

“Well, that’s ’cause their very natures differ, y’know. Since ancient times, Hida’s been called a lowly country—ain’t there even a song that goes ‘Takayama beggars crawl out from Hida’s gutters’?”

“You’ve got quite the spirit! What were you doing up in the mountains?”

“Oh, well—just had a whole crew cuttin’ trees up there, y’know.”

“Must’ve been interestin’ work, eh?”

“Well, we’ve got nothin’ but young lads gathered up there—ha ha ha ha!”

“Don’t you get lonely?”

“Even if I do get lonely, you folks—ain’t nothin’ to be done. Just workin’ hard like this, goin’ home now ’n then.”

“What about the others?”

“The others’re still up there, poor things—young lads like that missin’ their women, see? But even so, they listen to what I say ’n keep workin’ quiet-like…”

The old man approached, exhaling alcohol-tinged breath while shouldering his backpack frame and calling out loudly.
The setting sun vanished behind clouds shrouding the peaks.
The path ended its ascent and flattened out.

Fir trees stood dead and white, like skeletons.
They looked back once more.
Clouds had already descended upon Hida, obliterating all traces of the paths they had traversed that day.
As they contemplated how descending beyond this mountain might mean never returning to these Hida lands again, a peculiar nostalgia washed over them, keeping them standing there gazing out.

They stood at the edge of the downhill slope.
Suddenly, a single rainbow arced from the depths of the valley up toward the heavens.
An unfathomably deep valley—so deep its bottom couldn’t be seen—stretched below; the rushing sound of water echoed up.
The valley bottom was already dim.
Across the valley, a black rocky mountain reflected the faint evening light.

“Ah, well then—you folks go on ahead. Hirayu’s at the bottom of this valley, y’know.”
The old man settled himself on a rocky outcrop.

We tightened the laces of our straw sandals and raced down the gravel-strewn valley path that seemed almost vertical.
Once we set our feet in motion, there was no stopping them.
Jostling our bellies, we ran down without catching our breath.

They passed through the thicket path and descended to the bank of a mountain stream. Before them spread a plain of short grass. The path they had come by had completely vanished from sight. There was no help for it; they followed the river downstream. They felt as though they were circling the bottom of a mortar. They began to doubt whether they could possibly reach a hot spring by passing through such a place as this. When they stopped briefly and listened carefully, there was only the sound of the river and bats flying through the thin mist, squeaking sharply as they went. Even when they looked up at the sky, the rainbow’s colors had already vanished without them noticing, leaving only a faint haze. Someone suggested waiting for the old man who was coming from behind, but since he urged them to press on regardless, they continued forward.

As the river curved, houses began to appear darkly in the mountain's shadow. Lights flickered. The scent of hot springs wafted through the air. Voices of people could be heard. They let out a sigh of relief. Their feet quickened of their own accord.

Steam rose as mist swayed whitely upward, revealing one hundred sixty houses lined up within it; the sound of boisterous singing reached them. They truly felt they had discovered some wholly unexpected place. Finding one large house among them, they lodged there. The spring was carbonated—an outdoor communal bath—with a large bathhouse built there; everyone went to bathe wearing geta clogs.

When they woke up the next morning and went outside to look, the clouds had cleared completely, and to the west above the mountain range stood Mount Yarigatake's sharp peak piercing through the clouds. Directly behind the hot spring rose a jumbled mass of peaks extending from Mount Norikura—today's crossing would be through Anbō Pass between these mountains. By traversing this to reach Shirahone Hot Springs, they would have crossed the Japanese Alps twice in total: once from front to back, and now from back to front.

The group prepared themselves and immediately began climbing from the back mountain, though the slope proved quite steep.
Twisting and turning through the deep grass—the wind was cool, but the thick undergrowth made the air stifling.
When they climbed a bit higher, Hirayu Pass—which they had crossed the day before—came into view.

When they paused to rest at a bend in the path, a booming “Ahahahaha!” echoed from above. Startled, they looked up to find yesterday’s old man taking his ease on a rocky ledge overhead.

“Mornin’ to ya.”
“Good morning.”
“Must’ve been rough for you folks.”

While saying this, he took the lead and climbed ahead.
And he told them various stories.
He said that every year on this mountain path in early spring, there was never a time when one or two deaths didn't occur.
That might have been true.
On one side of the narrow path lay a deep valley; on the other stood a sheer sand mountain where sand constantly crumbled down from above, burying the path before tumbling into the valley.

Having climbed to the summit, they emerged onto a flat sandy path. The way ahead seemed to strike straight toward the midsection of a great black mountain. Clouds would intermittently descend thickly from its peak, draping across the entire mountainside down to its middle slopes as they passed—one mass after another—each time sending cold seeping deep into their bones. Though mid-August, not a single cicada cried in these mountains. The forest trees stood motionless. When they paused to listen, they fancied they could hear clouds tearing against rocky crags. A ptarmigan burst suddenly from the woods.

The clouds were gradually lowering.
The path narrowed again, winding through a forest of fir trees bleached white and withered. Clouds caught on their splintered-bone-like tips, tearing into strands, thinning, then coalescing again—silently stretching out hands in all directions as they pressed onward.

They all fell silent.
Even a single cough would echo to the clouds, and they felt that it might awaken some sleeping entity and provoke its wrath.
They passed through the solemn silence without a word.

The path curved through the clouds on its own and emerged from a withered forest over a deep ravine.
The clouds were suddenly swept away by the wind from the valley.

“Ah, finally—could these be Shinshu’s mountains?” said the old man as he settled down once more at a bend in the path.
“That there’s Yakeyama you see over yonder. Look—Shinshu’s mountains are big after all, ain’t they? Once you come this far, your mind clears right up. Once we start descendin’ round here—that’s Shinshu for ya.”

We too sat down and rested for a while.
The sunlight shone beautifully upon the mountains of Shinano.
The blue sky was deep, the air clear and refreshing.
It was an indescribably pleasant feeling.

The birds' songs began to reach them.
When they had descended the slope a bit, a mountain stream flowed northeast.
They had reached the upper reaches of the Azusa River. The path wound round and round down along the valley, passed the fork leading to Kamikochi, and after making a great loop around the ravine, the buildings of Shirahone Hot Springs came into view beyond a blue-green grassy hill.