Pathway to Japanese Literature

I. The Grandeur of Sōunkyō Gorge

Climb Mount Fuji and speak of the height of mountains.
Climb Daisetsuzan and speak of the grandeur of mountains.

Daisetsuzan loomed imposingly at the center of Hokkaido, occupying an area of seven or eight ri on each side; the greatness of its summit stood unparalleled in the realm, its clustered peaks piercing the heavens to overwhelm Asahikawa's urban sprawl.
Its highest peak rose 7,558 feet above sea level—a height that not only crowned Hokkaido's Jukkoku Island but found no equal through Kyushu, Shikoku, Chūgoku, Kinki, or Ōu.
Though surpassed in stature by Shinano's central highlands, its latitude-gifted vegetation and vistas upon those peaks rivaled even Shinano's own ten-thousand-foot mountains.

My travel companion was Tadokoro Hekiyō, a rugged and spirited man of valor; based in Asahikawa City, we sought a guide and obtained one called Mr. Narita Kasuke, a man of formidable prowess.
A gardener by trade, he had for years sought rare trees suitable for bonsai among cliff faces—carrying several days' provisions, using only a single oilpaper sheet as rain gear, and bearing no tools beyond his hatchet. Alone he ventured into bear dens, trod perilous paths, risked dangers, slept among dwarf pines; not only Daisetsuzan but Mount Kebun, Mount Chūbetsu, Mount Tomuraushi, Mount Ishikari, Mount Iō, and Mount Tokachi did he thoroughly explore, leaving no corner of the high mountains stretching across central Hokkaido untouched by his footsteps.
When we sought another member, there was Mr. Maekawa Gisaburō—a tofu shop proprietor who loved mountaineering; he allocated porter wages to cover hiring costs for a tofu-maker, then eagerly joined our team as a porter.

Having borrowed a tent from Asahikawa Middle School and prepared several days’ worth of rice, we departed Asahikawa Station, alighted at Pippu Station, and proceeded on foot—the road stretched straight ahead without end. No houses were visible, and cricket chirps filled both sides of the path. Upon reaching Shimo-Aibetsu, we found a small town. There was a dog pulling a box cart bearing three young children. Beside a canal drawing water from the Ishikari River stood an inn where a bear cub had been chained to a tree with iron shackles. Adults and children alike clustered around to watch. The cub spun in circles, occasionally licking its paws with soft smacking sounds. Though a large bear might appear fearsome like lions or tigers, this one somehow seemed endearing—the cub even more so. As for its fate—whether confined to a zoo cage or beaten to death—once captured by humans, struggling and fretting would avail it nothing; though unaware itself, from our perspective it made a pitiful sight. "People too," he reflected while watching, "bound by invisible chains—their struggles and cries are all the more pitiful." His eyes saw a bear cub; his mind perceived humankind. We took lunch at Nakaiabetsu before lodging at an inn in Rubeshibe. Forty or fifty houses stood clustered with shops among them, farmhouses scattered through the vicinity. The path cut through the Ishikari River Plain to meet several Daisetsuzan peaks. The Ishikari River possesses the Ishikari Plain downstream, the Asahikawa Plain midstream, and the Rubeshibe Plain upstream—this last being its final expanse of flatland before entering true mountain country. From Pippu to Shimo-Aibetsu measured three ri; Shimo-Aibetsu to Nakaiabetsu one and a half ri; Nakaiabetsu to Rubeshibe three and a half ri—eight ri traversed that day.

Arriving at Makkunbetsu, we reached the mountain’s base; proceeding to Sōunbetsu, we finally entered Sōunkyō Gorge.
A man with a fish spear on his shoulder, holding a trout still dripping blood from its wound, emerged from the mist.
In a makeshift hut, someone sang drunkenly.
They were said to be old natives.
The Ishikari River—a renowned great river—pierces the Kamui Mountain Range in its midstream and the foothills of Daisetsuzan in its upper reaches.
In neither case does it pierce through with rapids but with a gentle flow.
Where the Kamui Mountain Range is pierced lies Kamui Kotan.
The place where it pierces Daisetsuzan’s foothills is none other than Sōunkyō Gorge.
Kamui Kotan has been known as Hokkaido’s scenic spot yet possesses no particular charm beyond its extraordinary depth.
Sōunkyō Gorge remains unknown to the world but stands as nature’s peerless masterpiece.
There, over five ri, the Ishikari River flows between cliffs—some towering 2,000 shaku high, others no lower than 1,000 shaku.
The river’s width narrows gradually from thirty or forty ken until it dwindles to ten ken.
The water ran shallow and nearly silent.
The Ishikari River around Kamui Kotan runs turbid.
Near Asahikawa too its waters stay murky.
But at Sōunkyō Gorge it clears until one could count stones on its bed.
The cliffs on either bank first stand ten chō apart—then five or six chō—then one or two chō—until barely ten ken separates them.
Their summits rose unevenly.
Rocky peaks stretched unbroken while branch streams fractured their monotony.
Those peaks were rhyolite—columnar jointing wrought by earth’s ancient fires.

Call it uncanny—still words fell short.
Call it divine—still words fell short.
One could only think that demons and gods had built celestial towers here.

Welcomed and sent off by those towers of gods and demons, walking along the verdant path beneath lush foliage near Ishikari River's clear stream—ah, what could compare to this feeling? At Kato Onsen—unexpectedly finding a solitary dwelling there—I first gauged the spring's quality through scent before confirming its sulfurous nature by touch. What once required traversing near-vertical cliffs now became a log bridge crossing, soon bringing us to Shiotani Onsen. Within Sōunkyō Gorge's five-ri span stood only these two dwellings—Kato Onsen and Shiotani Onsen. Any others would have been primitive huts, yet here manifested a sage's retreat. Greeted by bear pelts, facing hearth flames while sipping sake transformed one's very essence into celestial being. Though lacking sulfur's pungency—whether saline spring or not—its power to mend healthy weariness proved most welcome. Here spread a vast riverbed where Hōrai Rock loomed midstream; standing atop this crag reached by twin log bridges revealed Daisetsuzan's peaks while vistas of upward-gazing rapids and downward-glancing currents transcended earthly realms.

The next morning, joining our party were Mr. Shiotani Tadashi—young manager of the hot spring—and painter Mr. Yoshizumi Chōshun; together we ascended Sōunkyō Gorge.
The peaks abounded with bizarre crags.
Upon the upper part of a massive boulder stood smaller rocks, some resembling a person carrying a child on their back.
There were also formations resembling standing people.
There were also spear-like formations.
As we pressed onward, marveling at the sight before us, a solitary peak stood erect, its height reaching some two thousand shaku.
The peak’s front was lined with long columns of rhyolite, and those columns extended to both sides of the peak.
Though I have seen many rocky peaks, never have I beheld one as inexplicable as this.
Marveling, I sat down on a rock; even smoking a cigarette proved insufficient, so I poured a cup and offered thanks to the mountain spirits.
Ah—is this what a mountain is?
If this be a mountain, then divine artisans and demonic axes have exhausted their utmost skills here.
Yesterday, upon entering Sōunkyō Gorge, I thought I beheld demonic towers; yet seen from today’s vantage, they were merely the demonic gate.

Yesterday I had mistaken the demonic gate for the demonic towers, but today I truly beheld those towers themselves.
The demonic towers descended as if forming a sheer wall, only to rise again and erect their structures, from which two long waterfalls cascaded.
The right measured three hundred shaku; the left must have spanned five hundred.
"Not even Southern School paintings could capture this," I murmured, pouring another cup for the mountain spirits.
The stone pillars of those towers stretched endlessly onward.
I walked while gazing at the sights; the two porters walked while fishing.
At times they lagged behind; at times they surged ahead.
When we reached Ōbako—where sheer cliffs of stone pillars stood one chō apart on either side—we shared the caught yamame trout as provisions: the drinkers drank, the abstainers ate.

Leaving the two porters to continue fishing as they wished, we pressed on and reached a place called Kobako.
How wondrously Nature has perfected transformation!
The Ishikari River, upon reaching Kobako, narrows to a mere ten ken in width, and though the height of both cliffs diminishes to three or four jō, they remain an unbroken succession of stone pillars.
The rock structure was particularly distinct.
The water flows gently, without a sound.
They forded [the river], moved to the left bank, and proceeded beneath the stone pillars.
Finally, they had entered the chamber of the demonic towers.
At a notch in the right cliff, a waterfall cascaded, playing celestial music, and the gorge echoed in response.
Though one cannot claim that lumber-shaped crags are rare in this world, the construction of celestial towers in the heavens and secluded chambers in the valley floor can be found nowhere but Sōunkyō Gorge.
Ōbako stretches twenty chō, Kobako ten chō; where Kobako ends, a great pool forms.
The left bank must not be traversed.
They forded [the river] and moved to the right peak.
Above the pool, it splits into two streams.
The right stream is slightly larger and constitutes the main stream.
The left is slightly smaller and constitutes a tributary.
From the sea to here, it must exceed a hundred ri.
The Ishikari River there has for the first time become a small mountain stream.
Shiotani Onsen is located at the center of the five-*ri* Sōunkyō Gorge.
To Shiotani Onsen, there is a narrow path that runs along the right bank.
Above Shiotani Onsen, there was no path—only the traces trodden by “yamabe” fishing existed along the right bank.

Even those traces would sometimes vanish, forcing them to leap from stone to stone along the bank.
Even the rocky peaks up to Shiotani Onsen alone constituted a peerless scenic spot under heaven; yet this remained but the demonic gate, with the hot spring itself forming the towers.
The mystical scenery leading to Kobako was not found in Yabakei, not in Shōsenkyō Gorge, not in Mount Myōgi, nor in Mount Kongō.
Peerless under heaven it was.
It was those who had thoroughly explored Sōunkyō Gorge who should first speak of the wonders of its rocky peaks.

On the return path, Mr. Kasuke picked up a dead trout in the stream, but upon tasting it and finding it unpalatable, he discarded it.
Among fish, it was only the trout that could skillfully ascend steep mountain streams and penetrate deepest and highest into the mountains.
Born in clear streams, these trout ventured into the turbulent sea, returned to their original clear streams to mate—whereupon the male died immediately, and the female soon followed.
For trout, love was death.

Underestimating the round trip as a mere five or six ri, they returned to find no welcoming lanterns from the inn.
Mr. Shiotani was young and vigorous; his strides resembled flight.
He had mistakenly fallen into a deep pool, but being skilled in swimming, he emerged with only his clothes soaked.
Those who would climb mountains must know how to swim—this is what I have always preached. But now, having witnessed Mr. Shiotani’s example, I have come to know all the more that my words do not lead people astray.

II: First Night on Daisetsuzan

Sōunkyō Gorge was a grand spectacle belonging to the Ishikari River, but those rocky peaks deemed demonic towers—perched upon Daisetsuzan’s slopes—could equally be claimed as a grand spectacle belonging to Daisetsuzan itself.

Merely viewing the demonic towers from below remained within the realm of ordinary sightseeing.
To thoroughly grasp the essence of this landscape, one had to ascend those demonic towers and reach the summit of Daisetsuzan.
However, even the people of Shiotani Onsen had never climbed beyond there.
Even Mr. Kasuke had not climbed beyond there.
Very well—determining that ascending the ravine through the tower’s crevice would prove feasible, just as yesterday’s party—now joined by a surveyor named Mr. Sakakibara Yoshiro and additional porters—was about to depart, Mr. Mizushō Yoshizō swept in.
The principal of Rubeshibe Elementary School, who had climbed many times, regarded Daisetsuzan as if it were his own garden.
When he heard of my plan to climb Daisetsuzan—having never imagined I would be accompanied by a stalwart like Mr. Kasuke—and fearing our objective might prove unattainable, he volunteered of his own accord to serve as our guide.
I expressed gratitude for his kindness and observed his appearance—a large-framed, powerfully built man of open-hearted and heroic disposition, a true spirited fellow.
I felt increasingly reassured.
Even Mr. Mizushō had never climbed from Shiotani Onsen, yet he shared the same view as us: that one could ascend via any ravine.

Descending several chō from Shiotani Onsen, they entered deep into the left ravine.
At first, it was a small gentle stream, but soon the gorge narrowed into a steep V-shaped channel, and waterfalls began to appear in succession.
Mr. Mizushō carried a load of four or five kan; whenever they reached a perilous spot, he would climb ahead and pull up those coming behind.
I followed the party.
I preserved my remaining strength by not hurrying and quietly savored the scenery.
When we climbed one waterfall, there was another.
Amid the stream between them, a solitary rock jutted out, and atop its peak lay a coiled snake.
Though I had seen many snakes before, this was my first encounter with one coiled tight.
He gazed at it curiously and pitied it.
This snake still lived but appeared half-dead, its body terribly emaciated.
It must have fallen into that V-shaped gorge—trapped with no escape or sustenance—now entrusting its weakened form to a mere sliver of land within the mountain stream.
Rather than let it await death in vain, he used his staff to unravel its coils and sent it tumbling into the waterfall below.

The stream split into two: the right branch narrow but abundant in water, the left wide yet scant in flow with a steep gradient.
Though I felt compelled to take the right stream in my heart, when I followed the party that had chosen the left, we indeed reached a precipice.
In any case, after taking our midday meal, we descended into the right stream and climbed waterfall after waterfall until finally confronting a great cascade over thirty feet high.
They marveled at its splendor but, finding it unclimbable, turned back to scale the right cliff face and proceed along the ridge.
Three hours they spent pushing through a dwarf bamboo thicket before reaching the dwarf pine zone and heaving a sigh of relief.
A glance at the watch showed 4:15 PM.
Time pressed them to prepare for bivouacking.
Upward they climbed—would water at last be found?
Several chō below lay a place with water.
When asked whether to ascend or descend, none would consent to go down.
Mr. Mizushō spied a snowfield some twenty chō across to his right; tonight’s camp would draw water there, they resolved.
All assented.
Mr. Mizushō advanced several chō ahead before crying out joyfully: “Here! Here it is!”
Oh delight! Through a parting in the dwarf pines appeared a small pond—eighteen meters wide and seventy-two long.
Tadpoles dwelling within proved the water wholesome.
Where pines thinned stretched a vast flower field.
Moss phlox, rock orchids, cliff plums, chinguruma grass, hemlock cherries, stone beards, Chishima gentians—all grew thickly, even upon pond rocks.
Beneath dwarf pines lay leaf litter accumulated over centuries, three to four shaku deep; stepping on it mimicked a springboard’s give.
The mountain’s chill yielded to kindled flames.
Rice in the pot stood ready.

Non-drinkers ate first.
The heavy drinkers became blissfully drunk.
The nineteenth-night moon appeared.
The flames rose high, and within them dozens of crimson streaks shot straight upward, their ends scattering as sparks across half the sky—a spectacle unseen in earthly fireworks—as the sake grew all the more flavorful.
Without pitching the tent, they spread it out and lay down upon it.
The burning fire served as the group's blanket.

III. Daisetsuzan's Second Night

The people from Shiotani Onsen had thought it could be done as a day trip, and thus had not prepared sufficient food nor brought spare straw sandals.
Since we needed to make straw sandals immediately, we searched for materials, but ropes and cords alone proved insufficient. When we provided unused hand towels and wrapping cloths from our party, Mr. Kasuke and the hot spring porters crafted four pairs of straw sandals.
And so they ascended into the dwarf pine zone.
If it had been dwarf bamboo thickets, they could have pushed their way through and ascended.
They could not push through the dwarf pines.
With hands grasping branches and feet stepping on them, they had no choice but to climb diagonally.
As they ascended, the dwarf pines grew smaller; upon reaching a gentler slope, they lay low against the ground.
They should be able to walk across their tops.
How delightful! Once they could walk across the dwarf pines, the summit could not be far.
The view in all directions opened up.
The towers of Sōunkyō Gorge lay spread out at their feet, and the Rubeshibe Plain also came into view.
The dwarf pines eventually thinned out, and here they stood atop one of Kurodake’s peaks.

How vast was the summit of Daisetsuzan!
To the south lay Mount Ryōun, to the east Mount Aka, and to the north Mount Kuro's main peak—these rose but slightly above what stretched before us as an undulating plain reaching to every horizon.
This plain of gravel and stone held only scattered flower fields—nothing to block one's sight nor impede one's stride.

Descending a little and proceeding with Mount Ryōun to their right, they found the flower fields continuing unbroken.
The Chishima gentians were purple.
The snow-edge grass shone white.
The small cherry blossom grass blushed crimson.
The rabbit chrysanthemum glowed yellow.
Plum-bowl grass, rock bellflowers, four-leaf saltwort and others grew so thickly across the ground that one hesitated to tread there.
In a stony patch stood a solitary komakusa.
How pure its beauty—how exquisite its delicacy!
When I declared this must be the queen of alpine plants, Mr. Mizushō nodded his agreement, as did Mr. Kasuke.
Broadly speaking, alpine plants include trees and shrubs; narrowly defined, they are flowering herbs.
These herbs measured but one or two inches tall—even the largest stretched no more than four or five inches.
Yet their blossoms swelled disproportionately large, their colors blazing with an intensity unseen in lowland flowers.
Having climbed Daisetsuzan, I found myself first awestruck by the summit's grandeur—then thunderstruck by this wealth of alpine flora.
Daisetsuzan was truly a divine garden of heaven itself.

We reached the summit of Mount Hokuchin—which could be called the sovereign of Daisetsuzan’s peaks—and were struck with yet another astonishment.
We found ourselves before a crater measuring approximately three ri in circumference.
The crater connected to an undulating plain; rather than sinking deeply like a mortar-shaped bowl, it spread like a large platter. Daisetsuzan’s summit spanned three ri north-south and two ri east-west, with peaks such as Mount Hokuchin, Mount Ryōun, Mount Kuro, Mount Aka, Mount Hakuun, and Mount Kuma rising around its perimeter—while to the south, Mount Asahi stood isolated.
To the south, slightly removed, stood Mount Chūbetsu and Mount Keun; their line culminated in Mount Tomuraushi at a higher elevation.
To the deep right lay Tokachidake; to the left, Ishikaridake.
To the north, steep peaks along the Teshio-Kitami boundary rose in multitudes, vying to rival us in height.
Were the air to clear, one could see Asahikawa; Mount Akan standing imposingly in eastern Hokkaido; Mount Yōtei dominating the west; the Sea of Japan; and even the Pacific Ocean.
To Mr. Mizushō, who could drink, they portioned out sake; to Mr. Shiotani, who could not, they portioned out rock sugar—and thus the party split into two.
The four from Asahikawa remained, while the five from Sōunkyō Gorge descended.

The remaining four did not intend to stay on Mount Hokuchin either.
They descended south and traversed the Cloud Plain.
Even if one were to use only this Cloud Plain alone, it could accommodate hundreds of thousands while still having space to spare.
As they pressed toward Mount Hakuun, thick fog assailed them as daylight began fading.
When they glimpsed a snowfield where the dense fog had partially lifted, they descended toward it.
When fine rain arrived, they pitched the tent.
Were they to build up the fire, even rain would not extinguish it.
Tonight too they forgot the mountain's chill by the bonfire's glow, but taking shelter from rain in the tent meant they could no longer use flames as their blanket.

The nine had dwindled to four, leaving an inexplicable sense of loneliness. Particularly, we had tents, but the hot spring group did not. Though it was a descent through what amounted to the world’s most perilous terrain with no path—going down proved slower than climbing up—the thought that they who had bivouacked so boisterously yesterday would now spend the night drenched in rain left us unsettled. Though we told ourselves there was no use worrying, we continued to fret until exhaustion finally claimed our sleep.

IV. Daisetsuzan’s Third Night

Yesterday had seemed another’s concern, but today we found ourselves lacking even a single pair of straw sandals.
Though rope could serve as warp threads for sandals, we had exhausted all weft materials on the hot spring group.
Without deliberation, I undid my six-foot loincloth.
Following suit, Mr. Kasuke untied his own six-foot loincloth.
Hekiyō and Mr. Gisaburō made no move to remove theirs.
Likely aping Westerners by wearing underpants—garments wholly unfit for proper loincloth tightening—they proved useless in this predicament.
I declared their choice absurd and impractical, yet the two men merely compared our loincloths in silent amusement.
Mine was fresh and white; Mr. Kasuke’s lay weathered and black.

They climbed the steep sandy slope, reached the crater hill, repeatedly ascending and descending as they traversed the crater rim until coming upon Mount Kabuto—a peak formed entirely of overlapping boulders—then turned right and descended the crater hill.
The continuous flower fields stretched before them across gentle slopes.
In Ezo grew mugworts.
Within all Daisetsuzan, they thrived only here.
White gentians bloomed.
"These too grow nowhere else," Mr. Kasuke remarked.
Komakusa flourished abundantly in this area.
Approaching Mount Hakuun—another mountain of sheer crags—they edged along its blade-like summit to reach the highest point.
This peak marking Daisetsuzan's southeastern extremity possessed an outer crater.
The crater spanned over a dozen chō across each dimension, its flattened base transformed into an entire field of blossoms.
Here Daisetsuzan's range paused briefly before connecting with Mount Chūbetsu; beyond it lay Mount Keun in repose, while further still rose Mount Tomuraushi.
To Mount Tomuraushi's left stood Ishikaridake robed in trees; to its right smoldered Iōdake spewing smoke.
Turning one's gaze westward revealed Mount Asahi and Mount Hokuchin standing in close confrontation.
Though existing records deemed Mount Hokuchin taller than Mount Asahi, distance making the latter appear more remote, to my eyes Mount Asahi clearly loomed higher.
The Land Survey Department's 1:50,000 scale maps of this region remained unpublished though surveying had concluded.
Cross-referencing those measurements confirmed my observations held no error.
Mount Asahi rose at seven thousand five hundred fifty-eight feet against Mount Hokuchin's seven thousand four hundred ten—a full one hundred fifty feet difference.
For thoroughness regarding nearby peaks: our ascended Mount Hakuun ranked third at 7,357 feet; Mount Tomuraushi at 7,065; Mount Ryōun at 7,032; Mount Aka at 6,857; Ishikaridake at 6,573; Mount Kuro at 6,549; Mount Chūbetsu at 6,477; and Mount Keun at 6,349 feet.

They descended and strolled through the Flower Fields when a light rain arrived.
When they tried to leave, the sky cleared.
Retracing their original path, they looked down at last night’s campsite to their left, shifted the previously seen Mount Hokuchin to their left and ultimately behind them, then descended south through the Cloud Plain—where Mount Kuma rose abruptly, holding within its grasp a crater spanning ten chō on each side.
Taking shelter from the wind in the lee of a crag, they ate their midday meal; when they descended further south, the Daisetsuzan Mountain Range paused as if gathering itself and gave rise to Mount Asahi.
It formed two peaks: the eastern one low, the western one high.
They trod across snowfields and clambered up gravel slopes to reach the midpoint between two peaks; leaving the eastern peak behind, they ascended the western one.
The sandy slope was steep.
They would stop every five or six steps and take five or six breaths.
If you rush while climbing a mountain, you’ll suffer pain, tire easily, lose stamina, and fail to take in the scenery.
However, if they sat down too often,the path would make little progress; and if they became utterly exhausted，even resting would hardly restore their vigor.
By stopping briefly before fatigue sets in—exhaling deeply，keeping hips raised rather than sitting，and ascending gradually—they could climb without suffering，without tiring，without losing stamina，and thereby savor the scenery.
If one were to hold rock sugar in their mouth，they would surely lose even more vigor；they must have stopped a hundred times.
They reached the summit and finally sat down.
The summit tapered sharply.
The western face split open，emitting several plumes of smoke from its base.
What a truly exhilarating mountain this is！
Standing isolated at the southwestern extremity of the Daisetsuzan Mountain Range，forming a conical shape，its peak radiates singular splendor among these mountains.
The view rivals that of Mount Hokuchin.
Here，one cannot behold the grandeur of Daisetsuzan’s peaks，but across the plateau stretching from south to west，one may observe Sugatami Pond and many small lakes dotting the expanse.

They headed south, keeping Sugatami Pond to their right, and entered the valley. The world was enclosed by Japanese larch and white birch.

The stream was our path.
Water submerged feet,
never reaching knees.
Where rocks protruded,
we stepped stone-to-stone.
Mr.Kasuke pried stones aside suspecting crabs—
and indeed found them.
All followed his lead,
catching creatures inch-long,
shrimp-bodied with crab-claw pincers.
That night by rushing waters,
we pitched tents and boiled our catch.
Though unimpressed by flavor,
for me this marked first tasting.
"Better as tempura," Mr.Kasuke opined.
At two I stirred awake,
hearing rain patter
and cookpot clatter—
not moved by storm nor wind,
but what creature? Bear? Fox? Raccoon-dog?
Mr.Kasuke cleared his throat,
roused enough to identify:
"Flying squirrel."
Dozing again till half-three,
I glimpsed through tent fabric—
tree shadows etched by moonlight!
Joy—rains ceased,
moon unveiled!

The following day too they followed the stream as its channel gradually widened and its waters swelled in volume. Descending Nusa Falls, they stood upon a boulder large enough to hold twenty or thirty people and gazed up at the cascade. It must have measured a hundred feet or more. Sunlight caught in the spray conjured a rainbow. To the waterfall's left rose a sheer cliff face pocked with holes where rock swallows darted in and out, their flight tracing arcs through the prismatic light. The stream broadened still further. Japanese knotweed rose taller than a person; butterbur plants surpassed human height. At intervals river birds cried sharply as they skimmed the water's surface—creatures twice a sparrow's size with jet-black plumage. These birds cannot feed on land. Yet without paddling they cannot float upon water either. They perch not on trees but rocks, flying sideways above the stream before diving beneath when they spy fish. Looking back after descending Futami Falls, they saw it formed two tiers—the upper some ten feet high, the lower thirty. Though shorter than Nusa Falls, it carried greater water volume and struck a more imposing figure through sheer force.

After roughly four hours, they emerged from the mountain stream. The Ezo pine forest parted to reveal Hyōtō Lake shaped like a gourd. Sundew moss blanketed every inch of ground; no words could convey the delight of treading upon time-worn stones. Approaching the bank and grasping at floating weeds, they observed a lone dragonfly rhythmically dipping its tail into the water's surface. Was it laying eggs? When they experimentally poked at it with a trekking pole, the creature showed no inclination to flee—for its offspring's sake, it disregarded its own survival entirely.

When they reached Tenjin Pass and looked down, the sheer cliff stood vertically, exceeding a thousand feet. When they thought of descending this, their hearts trembled involuntarily; yet by grabbing dwarf bamboo and shrubs while facing backward, it was not impossible to descend. From midway through the descent near the left side, they saw Hagoromo Falls. When they descended and looked up—how high it was! It is said to measure eighty jō (approximately 242 meters). Though not falling straight but meandering downward, it far surpassed Nikko’s Kegon Falls in height. The waterfall’s waters soon joined the Chūbetsu River after their descent. Following the river downstream for several hundred meters brought them to Matsuyama Hot Spring—a solitary house in Chūbetsu Gorge. From there to Asahikawa was a day’s journey. They would need to ford the Chūbetsu River multiple times along the way, though at least a path existed. Even without walking all the way to Asahikawa, train service became available upon reaching Biei Station. To ascend Mount Asahi from Matsuyama Hot Spring required walking mostly through streambeds where only footprints marked the way—no proper road existed—and even Tenjin Pass’s steepness awaited them. Yet compared to climbing from Shioya Onsen, this route proved far easier.

Mr. Kasuke explained that each year about a hundred people climb Daisetsuzan: ascending the Chūbetsu River to lodge one night at Matsuyama Hot Spring, camping the next day by Lake Sutemi’s shore, summiting Mount Asahi on the third day before returning to Matsuyama Hot Spring for another night’s stay. By such means alone, one could neither comprehend Daisetsuzan’s summit grandeur nor grasp its Flower Fields’ abundance. Hagoromo Falls remains spectacular yet not peerless; it cannot compare to Sōunkyō Gorge’s unrivaled scenery. The Shioya Onsen contingent had neglected Mount Asahi and Hagoromo Falls but thoroughly explored Sōunkyō Gorge and Mount Hokuchin instead.

This approach could be said to have grasped the essentials more effectively than those who exhaustively explore Mount Asahi and Hagoromo Falls.
However, unless one climbs the three peaks of Mount Asahi, Mount Hokuchin, and Mount Hakuun, it cannot be said that one has thoroughly explored Daisetsuzan's summits.
Hagoromo Falls must not be neglected.
If one were to neglect Sōunkyō Gorge, they would fail to see half of Daisetsuzan.

Whereas those who ordinarily climb Daisetsuzan spend four days on the round trip, I had spent twice that number of days; thus quite unexpectedly, it was reported in the Hokkai Times that I had gone missing.
The concerned citizens of Asahikawa were in an uproar about dispatching a search party the following day.
While on a business trip, my nephew Masatoshi—who had come to visit me—also endeavored to join that party.
When I returned safely to Asahikawa, my nephew’s furrowed brow relaxed and those concerned citizens were put at ease.
Yet my hometown newspaper reprinted this report and further embellished it with their pens—adding that although I was someone long accustomed to mountaineering—since even monkeys fall from trees—there remained cause for concern.

I had four full siblings.
Two elder brothers and one sister had died, while one elder sister still remained in our hometown.
Upon seeing this report, she grew greatly alarmed and sent a telegram inquiring with the family in Tokyo.
The family too became alarmed and wired acquaintances in Hokkaido; however, knowing my usual mountaineering habits and being accustomed to false newspaper reports about me, they did not panic to the extent my sister did. Mr. Nishijima Seita of Hokuryū Village, whom I had recently become acquainted with, also took fright—going so far as to travel specially to Sapporo and consult a fortune-teller—and though he received assurances of my safety, still found himself unable to set his mind fully at ease.
This single false report stirred anxieties in every quarter.
Yet when the true facts became publicly known—revealing me not as some commonplace tourist but as one wholly and fervently devoted to mountaineering—this understanding spread through society. Wherever I went thereafter, people welcomed me with redoubled warmth while granting numerous climbing conveniences, until what had been misfortune transformed itself into fortune.