Pathway to Japanese Literature

I had a grandmother.
Having passed sixty years of age, she remained vigorous.
Her faith in two Buddhas ran deep, and she constantly yearned to visit renowned temples.
Yet long accustomed to the arduous travels of former times, she dared not venture forth alone.
Frequently she sought companions for these pilgrimages.
That summer, following my physician's counsel, I resolved to escape the heat by retreating to Kusatsu.
Kusatsu lies at the western edge of Joshu Province; flanked by mountain ranges bordering Shinano Province on both sides, it stands not far from Nagano's domains.
Thus I accompanied my grandmother under a pact to first worship at Zenkoji Temple.
From there we would detour toward Kusatsu.
Akiba-kun too joined our company.

On July 26th, we boarded the steam train and departed from Shimodate.
Mount Tsukuba saw us off, its emerald brows now thick with verdure—some ten days had passed since the rice planting concluded—and the morning winds and dew traversed the fields, adding yet another layer of green.
The white water breaking upon the gravel beneath the bridge was the clear stream of the Kinu River, and where heaven and earth met, the faint low forests stretching in continuity—was this not the secluded charm of a distant village?
We transferred at Koyama and turned westward.
The sun passed noon, and the intense heat gradually intensified.
Suddenly, the train lay across the bridge over the Omogawa River.
A cool breeze swept past—not without some power to slightly refresh the spirit.

Though Kawakami had already become a backwater, the refreshing breeze still found its way there.

To both sides stretched endless expanses, where along narrow paths through rice fields, village children could occasionally be seen leading horses.
Before us rose a solitary peak crowned with luxuriant foliage.
This was called Ōhirayama.
Ah—thirty years now stood between me and that time.
Calmly, the wind did not rustle the lofty trees; the mountain itself maintained its serene countenance.
Amidst serpentine mountain ranges stretching into the distance lay Iwagune—the nearest and most peculiar of peaks.
Sheer cliffs rose abruptly while verdant pines punctuated their surfaces.

Faintly darkening, a pine grove comes into view; in Shimotsuke, Tsuga Mountain stretches on as the clouds disperse — Takao Shimizu

Passing beyond this, to the north lay winding mountain ranges pressing close while a narrow stream still ran fiercely. To the south stretched a vast indistinct expanse; in the heavens hung something low, long, and motionless—a scene of peace to be cupped whole in one's hands. At times we pierced through forests, at others passed where mountain rivers swelled, until we reached Ashikaga. Leaning our faces from the train window, we could see a lone stream washing against its southern bank—this they call Watarase. Already within the southern haze stood verdant pines rising luxuriantly tall. Tracing these signs revealed them as the Ota Gold Mine. There exists a certain folk song I often recite—its indirect expressions pierce quite keenly into the subtleties of human sentiment.

I was raised in Ota's gold mine—no mountains but pines aplenty.

Departing Kiryu, we crossed the Watarase River.
The water was shallow yet struck against the rocks.
There were parts where the current did not flow gently.
From Ashikaga to this point, this river never remained far from the railway tracks.
When observing this, one found embankments that had collapsed were frequent; though viewing the turbulent waters against the scenery of the opposite bank was not without its heartening charm, yet when considering the plight of those living along its shores, one could not help but sink into despondency.
When one cast their gaze, at the plain’s farthest reaches the foothills of the mountains ran long and far; moreover, that which stood unadulterated with its peak enveloped in thick clouds was Akagi.
Though its foothills lacked the gentle slopes of Akagi and though it did not possess inherent grandeur, Haruna’s elegant visage still compelled one to yearn for ascent.
As we passed the upper reaches of the Tone River where raging torrents gnawed at rocks, dense clouds hung in the heavens, and jagged peaks rose within calling distance of one another.

We were in Takasaki.
The sun was gradually lowering, and the train still had time before it would split off westward from here.
Thereupon, I wandered through the city with Akiba-kun.
In a corner of the city stood a barracks.
It was encircled by aged pine branches.
That is to say, it was the site of an old castle.
When dusk had deepened to an azure darkness and the sunset's light reflected on wispy clouds began fading, the train started moving.
Ahead within the darkening purple mountain peaks, their forms could barely be discerned; below them across rice fields lay a desolate village.
The lamplight of every household glimmered among the trees.
Such scenes continued endlessly without cease.
It was another striking sight.

A few fireflies blended their lights, reflections upon the water.

Through small mountain fields flows the Isasa River; over its stagnant pools dart fireflies.

The clatter of wheels now rose in solitary prominence, yet we remained unaware of the shifting landscapes beyond.
We were already upon the slopes of Usui Pass.
The train continued its gradual advance without ceasing.
It entered a tunnel and exited a tunnel.
Such instances numbered twenty in all, and throughout this time, the mountain peaks before our eyes still remained distant and indistinct.
The water of mountain streams alone rushed violently downward, cascading to hang like curtains wherever they flowed; under the night’s hues, the desolate atmosphere only deepened further.

We arrived at Karuizawa and took lodging.
This was already Shinshu.

The next day, we set out at dawn in vain and wandered through mist and haze.
The clouds and mist had not yet dispersed.
Floating lightly, they brushed against our faces and departed.
The land stood over three thousand one hundred shaku above sea level—truly elevated and arid, such that one's spirit could not help but feel profoundly refreshed.
Once we had settled into a corner of the train car, the sky gradually cleared, making retrospection lucid.
A gentle peak stood watch to the north, as though gazing down upon distant mountain ranges stretching far into the distance.
Dense trees stood jaggedly uneven, casting deep shadows where Usui Pass's treacherous path wound through their midst.
Though this place was indeed high, its gently sloping foothills generally formed a plateau.
The train passed precisely through that very space.
When gazing upon it, here and there lay cultivated fields.
Yet in areas where the climate differed, leaves had not yet fully turned yellow.
Where the plateau ran its course, there lay nothing but utter emptiness.
Many distant peaks stood jaggedly delineating it.
Could it be a valley?
At times, the ground beneath our path would suddenly descend, water gurgling as it sought its way through that space.
Therefore, there were rock surfaces so jagged and angular they could not be touched.
And in many places, trees grew to cover them.
By now, clouds and mist filled all directions; one could not discern a single thing.
As the morning cleared, I earnestly thought Mount Asama's eruptive plume would surely come into clear view.
Ah, last night had been too dark to see Myōgi.

Now matters had reached such a state.
How could I bear such regret!
Upon arriving at Komoro, we encountered the Chikuma River.
The opposite bank generally rose like a wall.
And the most perilous of all was deemed to be Nunobiki Mountain.
In a slight hollow of jagged rocks, amidst flourishing trees, we saw a single structure.
Truly a wondrous sight.
From this point onward, we would meet and part with the Chikuma repeatedly throughout our journey.
At times, massive boulders towered so high they seemed almost about to fall overhead.
In some places, torrents scoured out the rock; on the mountainside, caves formed.
Distant things, near things, high things, low things—all differed from one another.
A peak with a gentle slope and serene countenance; the one with slightly paler verdure was designated as Obasuteyama.
Once we passed this and thundered past Chikuma’s turbid current, gazing to the right revealed distant mountains leveling far into the distance that demarcated the horizon.
This was Kawanishi Island.
Saijōsan, rising abruptly at one end, seemed poised to press against the train window.
Chausuyama’s wind blew lightly over the rice fields and slipped into the train window.
When we crossed the long bridge again and passed the Sai River, the train slowly entered Nagano Station.
From here, we abandoned our vehicle and proceeded into the city.
The road gradually ascended.
At the road's end stood Zenkoji Temple.

The temple, backed by mountains to the west and north with its halls grandly arrayed, stood such that ascending to its main gate revealed the entire city laid out clearly before one’s eyes.
Having finished making our offerings, we entered the monk’s quarters.
We were now preparing to witness the opening of the shrine at dawn the following day.
The time had not yet reached noon.
The monk, quite sincere, led us to the hall and spoke of the Tathagata’s spiritual efficacy.
After the meal, we went out with Tetsumen-kun and circled around the pond behind the temple; seeking paths along rice fields, we found a single road and proceeded.
We were about to arrive at Buran-dō.
Following along the mountain, we passed two or three villages, then took the road to the left and proceeded.
Vast mountains stretched out before a swath of rice fields.
Amidst a single swath of verdant green, villages dotted here and there.
Trees with tall trunks; two or three dwellings occasionally came into view.
And yet, not even a single sheet of paper bearing a single dot of ink could compare.
The Chikuma River ran through the plain, splitting it in two like a belt.
In the distance, where the mountains dipped slightly into a hollow, there lay a strip of red earth.
When a sudden downpour arrived in torrents, gathering all the mountain’s waters into a raging cascade that swept through in an instant—these were its traces.
When the skies cleared, there was not a single stream to be seen—such was the case here.
One obtained the grandiose scenery in its entirety without even seeking it.
Truly, the imposing presence of the massive rocks knew no bounds.
If we retraced our path and took a few steps, there before our eyes stood a single structure.
This we named Ran・dō.

The hall clung to the face of a sheer cliff, bearing an antique hue. Planks had been laid to barely allow access. Inside lay a narrow space where they had carved an altar-like rock to enshrine a deity. The valley abruptly deepened, branches and leaves intertwining until it felt worlds away from human habitation. Were one to cling to tree roots and descend, they would find trees interwoven upon the rocks above to form their foundation—a chaotic tangle of irregular growth. To misstep here meant confronting the undeniable sensation of plummeting down alongside the hall itself. Ah, what purpose could this insignificant structure serve, compounded by such precariousness? Yet those who chose this site and added such eccentricity here—their inventive spirit truly commanded admiration.

They departed and began ascending along a narrow path.
Tangled thickets of weeds swallowed their shins.
There stood formations rising steadfastly, their bases formed by the peaks of soaring mountain ranges.
Lush green grass spread thickly, with not a single tree in sight.
The valley that narrowed severely and pressed close upon them was Iizuna.

Tomorrow we too must cross beyond—Izuna’s mountain, Izuna’s white clouds.

They descended and joined a road.
They advanced along this road without knowing its end.
Then, turning left, they set off to return.
Already, the rocky peak where the Buddhas had once fiercely squatted and glared now thrust abruptly toward the heavens.
The mountain stream—again passing in a manner that washed its feet—reached under the bridge and joined the river.
Clear springs welled up here and there along the roadside.
The cold air pierced through to the bones.
The old man had already obtained his goods; being led back slowly by his horse, he scooped up a handful and let it drink.
The horse, having regained its vigor, faced the sky and let out a long neigh.
Every one of these scenes was utterly delightful.
Having had their fill of delight, they returned.
Ah, yesterday they traversed tens of ri, today passed through nearly as much—the strange forms of villages, mountains, and rivers: those towering, those stretching afar, those near at hand, those lying low; rivers flowing gently, rushing violently, broad ones, narrow ones, deep ones, shallow ones; some wondrous, some ordinary—enumerating these would yield dozens upon hundreds. Among them, there was assuredly none unworthy of being counted among the world’s sublime vistas.
And yet, why does the leisurely nature of their pleasures here not match the delight of gazing through binoculars?
The first type is one where you’re too busy looking around in all directions to truly grasp what resonates in your heart—no sooner do you glimpse something than it vanishes into distant clouds and mist, every instance proving no exception.
The other type is not so—your body sits quietly without moving, yet your heart never tires of the mountain’s form and the water’s appearance, nor do they depart from you.
The first type is quite leisurely; therefore, one’s spirit does not soar.
The other type is not so; when it comes to mountains, there is the difficulty of climbing.
When it comes to water, there is the peril of crossing on foot.
And once they braved these trials and reached their destination, their spirit soared expansively—all that met the eye was nothing but delight.
How much more sublime, then, was the grandeur of that place?

The reason for this lies here.
This already exists: city folk who would still hire carriages even for a journey of mere few *ri* nearby—how could they ever comprehend its true essence?
Truly, where suffering accompanies, pleasure will surely come.
The greater the suffering, the greater the pleasure.
Is this principle limited solely to the pursuit of scenic wonders?

That evening, thunder arose from a corner of Raimeizan.
No sooner had it begun than clouds raced to shroud the vast sky.
What had been dripping raindrops abruptly transformed into a torrential downpour; spray scattered everywhere, veiling all surroundings in mist.
They hurriedly closed the doors and waited for clear skies.
The rain’s clamor showed no sign of abating.
When I tentatively pushed open the door, the firmament had already cleared of clouds to reveal pure azure.
Because the ground stood high, rainwater immediately gathered and pooled in low places.
Thus did the deluge that had overwhelmed the waterways ultimately produce a thunderous roar.
At the mountain’s edge, the sun swelled like a wave while a lone cloud near the horizon blazed with singular vividness.

28th

Morning broke; the temple monks, already having properly arranged their robes, urged us to depart.
So we followed them and set out.
Because we had taken lodging at the temple, we were able to enter the inner sanctum immediately.
Those seated in rows were mostly elderly.
Once the temple bell resounded, rows of shaven heads lined up, and voices chanting sutras filled the hall.
In the moment when the lamplight cast an eerie glow, as the brocade curtain slowly opened, a brilliant radiance all at once revealed the Tathagata’s revered image halfway into view.
Those worshipping it kowtowed, moved to tears, with almost none daring to look up.
I found myself there, my heart not untouched by a peculiar sensation.
Having finished our morning meal, we took our leave from the temple lodgings and departed.

Grandmother alone immediately set out on the return journey.
We saw her off on the road and parted ways before proceeding through town.
That day we would lodge at Shibu; tomorrow we were to enter Kusatsu.
As the sun gradually rose higher,the road wound its way along mountain foothills in looping curves.
To our right always stretched rice fields.
A narrow stream’s chill water overflowed onto our path; a soundless breeze departed toward unknown destinations.
Yet as time passed and scorching heat intensified,the leaves hung motionless while cicada cries only added vexation.
We ourselves steeled our resolve and pressed onward until reaching Chikuma River.
At its banks we found turbid waters swollen greater still,rushing violently in surging torrents.
The bridge floated pontoons bound by iron chains between both shores.
Thus water’s rise and fall held no consequence for its structure.
When one stepped upon it—though raging currents roared less than three feet below—the bridge swayed with each movement.
After enduring this crossing to reach the far bank,could any fail to feel exhilaration?
Seeking shade beneath a solitary tree’s canopy,the long Chikuma River carried valiant energy along its entire course.
Swallows twisted and leapt,trying their wings amidst these currents.

How the swallows fly freely over the river—swift even without urging, swifter still!

The mountain ridges gradually pressed in as the road rose and fell.
Finally, we arrived at Nakano.
Nakano was indeed situated at the mountain’s base, its entire town layout relying entirely on sloped roads.
Before entering it, I saw a grand house standing alone apart.
When we asked about it, they declared it to be an elementary school.
Unable to suppress secret doubts, when we inquired again, they declared it to be an elementary school.
We, upon entering Shinshu, found that all bustling markets were likewise.
Indeed, though there were some rather narrow roads in Nagano City, when it came to the construction of houses, there was not a single one unbearable to look at.
In particular, there existed school buildings of exceptionally large scale.
Adding to this, even among the remote villages we passed through that day, we saw all being greatly well-ordered.
And having reached this point, it was exactly as described.
Ah, though the people of Shinshu were so fervently devoted to education, if they could not obtain suitable financial means, how could they possibly achieve such a state?
Truly, Shinshu was indeed a prosperous land!
Several cups of water barely alleviated the dryness before we emerged.

The road ran toward the peak ahead. Unless they unleashed their full measure of courage and strength here and now, surmounting this pass would prove impossible. And yet with heavy loads upon their shoulders, their bodies stood already exhausted. The slope was steep and winding; they found it taxing just to trace its path with their eyes. Their hearts pounded, their breaths came in gasps, and they barely reached the summit. When they sought respite from the sun, a sudden rush of sweat drenched them until it became unbearable. Suddenly a cart appeared, loaded high with lumber and approaching. They saw several people pulling and pushing it, barely managing to rotate its wheels. I initially resolved to endure both the load and the sweat; yet ultimately I could not withstand that hardship. Descending to level ground, we found stones scattered across the path. We rested outside the hedge of a humble dwelling where thin streams flowed—a few steps into the rice fields lay something worth writing about beyond this mountain stream flanked by trees on both banks. After a short while they descended to a river quite wide yet flowing divided into several narrow channels—all things in these mountains being thus—then climbed its bank and reached Shibu where houses lined both sides continuously along what was called Yutanaka: hot springs gushing forth where they met the road and immediately connecting to Shibu.

Shibu is where iron-rich springs well up, its bathhouses' structures quite worth seeing; the inns' orderly arrangements bear no resemblance to remote hamlets.
The land faces the river and lies at the mountain's edge.
They intended to explore the scenic wonders of Jigokudani Valley in its depths.
They immediately approached the inn and inquired about the way.
They said it was nearly half a ri and gave thorough directions.
They entered through the temple gate and finally reached the riverbank.
The path wound snakelike, sometimes leading them beneath dense trees, sometimes making them dash across single-log bridges; after persisting through this, they descended and met the stream.
A strange odor hung in the air, doubtless emanating from mineral springs; ahead where the stream flowed through, the mountain foothills on both sides plunged steeply downward to intersect.
There stood a massive sheer cliff, rising vertically for tens of *jō*, imposingly positioned between them; its face entirely cloaked in branches and foliage.
A single strip of rock face lay exposed; its watery form resembled a hanging curtain.
Indeed, when rain falls and immediately forms waterfalls here, it washes away tree roots—this is why nothing ultimately grows.
Suddenly, the path encountered an accumulation of shattered rock fragments.
When gazing upon this, bizarre crags abruptly rose from the path on the left, perilously threatening to crush anyone nearby.
Their composition matched what we had scaled the previous day, yet their strangeness was twice as great.
Should they encounter violent rain, they would immediately crumble away.
Therefore, there were formations jaggedly angular and craggy like giants.
There are sword-like ones.
And when they took a few steps and looked back, their forms had suddenly transformed entirely.
And there, dwarf pines grew thickly, interlinking with one another.
They could only regret being unable to climb it.

Passing this, there was a bridge; where it ended stood a single building—a bathhouse. When they looked upstream from the bridge, they saw plumes of steam ceaselessly rising nearby. A fence encircled the water’s edge; at its side stood a large rock. Approaching and observing it closely, amidst rugged boulders, hot water gushed forth incessantly. Therefore, the plume accompanying it reached a height of ten jō. The ferocity showed no sign of abating. At this point, they deemed that the wondrous sights worth exploring were sufficient. Truly, today’s labors were more than sufficient to compensate.

The return path felt brief; in but a moment they stood again upon the temple's riverbank they had left earlier.
Water shattered against rocks again and again—a clamorous roar ceaselessly surging.
A boy appeared shouldering a long-handled dipper, rope in hand driving a cow toward the stream.
When the cow calmly turned aside, he tugged sharply at the rope until it slowly yielded.
At this he poured water over its back.
The cow stayed motionless beneath his ministrations.
This collision of urgency and languor—I perceived as an exceptionally fine composition.
Painters sometimes capture shepherd boys astride cattle as embodiments of such scenes' essence.
Truly it exists—when viewing mountain-water landscapes one must acknowledge divine intent permeates all.

The seven ri separating Shibu and Kusatsu—this distance being but a half-day's journey.
Though true enough, splendid peaks stood directly between them—many travelers found the going arduous, with only oxen, horses, and people proving dependable.
Tetsumen-kun declared himself weak despite his sturdy legs.
I, though weak-legged myself, boldly claimed strength.
That night we hired horses meant for tomorrow's returning passengers.
I summoned the innkeeper before retiring.
The innkeeper obligingly answered our queries; I found his courtesy most commendable.

29th

When I emerged from my morning bath, a gentle breeze passed through my hair, refreshing.
The horses had already arrived; I had waited long.
Then, having finished our meal, we departed.
Today, I hired available horses to entrust the luggage to their backs and felt the lightness of traveling alone.
After crossing the river, the road began to climb gradually.
The road was nearly level.
Cows and horses—some bearing loads, others transporting people—were spaced far apart yet connected in a line.
People moved their steps leisurely where no wind stirred the grass; amidst the realm of tranquil solitude, there were cows that roared toward the azure clouds.

The voices of cows calling to companions through the wind were heard faintly and distantly beyond Shibu’s mountain pass.

After persisting through this stretch, abruptly the road veered toward a precipitous mountainside. Therefore, it twisted and ascended. Those who were a few steps ahead seemed poised to tread immediately upon the heads of those behind. Though this slope might not be high, were one to extend it, the distance between them would surely become far—would it not? Therefore, one’s legs could not help but grow considerably fatigued. Now, standing atop this steep slope and gazing out—unbounded by the peaks ahead and to the sides—all distant lands and nearby villages lay within hailing distance, dotted here and there. The distant splendid peaks stood side by side, clad in verdant robes with subtle adornments, casting glances across the land: to the right was Echigo’s Myōkōsan, while to the left lay Iizuna Mountain and Kurohime Mountain, standing elegantly between them. And that which, hemmed in by Iizuna and Kurohime, half-revealed its form as though desiring to join this procession was Togakushi’s perilous peak. When I tentatively took up the binoculars and gazed out, I saw mountains connected in an unbroken chain—their towering forms rising as though forming the very belly of the land—and clustered dwellings where trees grew thickly along their edges. Beneath them, spread across the expanse, lay a covering of trees clinging to barren soil; what one might lose sight of were they not to fix their gaze intently—was this not indeed the very place we had struggled past yesterday with our spirits near spent? And yet now it appeared diminutive, as though it could be grasped in the palm of one’s hand. However, this climb was not particularly high. And yet, such was the reach of our vision. Therefore, those who would expand their spirit and fortify their mind—let them seek the heights indeed.

While unable to linger, people and livestock had abandoned me and gone far away.
Thereupon, I proceeded to seek out a shortcut through overgrown areas.
Finally, I came upon a thatched hut.
That is to say, it was a teahouse.
All who had arrived here were resting.
The old woman boiled wheat and served hot water.
The flavor was quite pleasing to the palate.
When we inquired about Kanman Falls, someone replied it was no more than two chō away.
We proceeded with the boy leading the way.
Taking the path that immediately branched to the right and rising and falling through weeds until reaching where the road ended, when viewed from there across a distant valley, a white streak of cascading water fell from between mountains as mist and cloud.
The precipitousness of that waterfall—in one great plunge it descended to its end.
For there was no pool; the water rushed through crevices in the rock.
When looking down near one’s feet, the depth measured hundreds of fathoms.
Ultimately, its descent could not reach an end.
Yet with peaks towering high and vistas vast, they remained unaware that the waterfall’s true worth was nearly doubled in grandeur.
Thereupon, we left the teahouse and proceeded.
The road was level, and the scenic beauty gradually became splendid.
To the left was a small pond; this they called Biwa Pond.
It was named for its shape; in these mountains, it naturally draws travelers’ eyes.

Like the resonance of four lute strings—how profound was the sound of wind at Kikubai Pond!

As we climbed slightly higher, ponds became distinctly visible in their forms while the road overlooked a valley where one could hear water gurgling ceaselessly.
This marked the waterfall's upper reaches.
Below, it plunged swiftly to form cascades.
Flanking the stream stood an unbroken mass of rock; beyond it stretched a narrow path that meandered endlessly toward unseen ends.
How many leagues from worldly dust—those treading this way were either shepherd boys or lowly laborers.
Does nature assimilate people? Have such folk truly attained noble hearts?

Finally, they reached the teahouse. That is to say, it was the summit. When I looked at the garments people wore, they were meant for harsh winters in my hometown. The season was now midsummer—were people not murmuring they had nowhere to place themselves? The land had its unevenness; ultimately, this difference arose. Indeed, I had prepared layered garments in advance. Yet despite the physical exertion, not a drop of sweat formed, and there were moments when I shivered in the wind. The cold on horseback proved ultimately unbearable, and I truly thought there was reason to this. The horse handlers gathered around the hearth with cups of cold sake, purchasing a slight intoxication before departing. The path descended; ahead lay rocks of varying heights jutting out abruptly, proving quite vexing. By now, the sun began to shine overhead; around us were no clouds, nor could any wind be heard. To behold mountains far within one’s field of vision—it was truly wondrous.

The one side of Shibusu Pass we had now traversed—like all places where common folk habitually roam unchecked—would surely come entirely thus.
And yet—what atmospheric quality made people precisely unable to tear themselves away?
It was because clouds existed; where clouds veiled peaks grew ever more distant and lofty; valleys vaster and deeper; wooded areas gained increasingly boundless forms.
Moreover sudden transformations intensified instantaneously erasing former appearances.
Ah! Clouds render all existence profound yet desolate—splendidly beyond reach.
People climb heights mostly seeking distant views.
Thus clouds crowning summits make regrets seem endless.
I too had witnessed such phenomena in mountain skies.
Yet though scores across Japan boast vistas like Shibusu Pass’s none could compare.
Therefore from outset I sought only hints of wonder unrelated to weather.
Confronted by myriad uncapturable marvels how could one’s pulse not quicken?
Clouds’ wonders—could Shibusu alone possess them?
Landscape connoisseurs rarely enter mists preferring clear skies thus missing mountain spirits’ gifts.
Might this approach divine essence more nearly?
The treacherous path descended long before opening slightly where commoners grazing horses kindled smoky fires.
Gazing afar they saw houses clustered under plateaus among pines.
Inquiry revealed Kusatsu.
They pointed earnestly standing.
Asked about Mount Shirane—“Proceed briefly rightward” proved true.

They quickened their pace and pressed onward.

Mount Shirane was an active volcano, its entire form built of rock—jagged and near enough to seem within arm’s reach.
With one exhaled breath they descended through scattered boulders to find a teahouse.
Upon passing it and crossing a small bridge, the mountainous terrain had already transformed into plateau-like topography.
After a short distance appeared a climbing path.
Here, the horses awaiting Tetsumen-kun advanced slowly, needing cautious descent down steep abrupt slopes, arriving only after considerable time.
They resolved to discuss their ascent later.
They would now proceed directly into Kusatsu.
Having secured lodgings, I alone made the climb.
The slope lay gentle beneath my feet.
All foliage flanking the path stood bleached white.
Close inspection revealed that from where volcanic ash had recently fallen down to the foothills, every clustered tree had withered into decay matching those seen along the way.
The path itself lay buried under shattered rock fragments and mud still undried.
When first I saw this mountain upon arrival, I had thought its ash-white rocks bore such qualities inherently.
Now reaching this point, I understood they resulted wholly from mud eruptions.
Frequently I observed dead trees bearing small accretions.
First stripped of life and bark, now reduced to this wretchedness—what misfortune could rival that of volcanic trees?

The path wound chaotically along the mountain’s contours. At intervals I passed immense boulders. Examining them closely, I noticed that surfaces facing the mountain were smooth and rounded, while those turned away bore jagged edges too sharp to approach—was this not uncanny? Ahead in the distance now loomed a cavernous pit: a sulfur refinery. A rail track ascended toward the summit, which I followed upward between rocks until reaching the peak. There, sulfurous fumes swept by the wind assaulted my nostrils—so potent I feared suffocation at any moment. The vista was desolate beyond words: jagged rocks encircling a flat basin that collapsed inward again to form a gaping hole roughly one chō across—the very source of those ceaselessly rising fumes. Nearby lay an excavated pit where sulfur ore was mined; two or three laborers—men and women alike—strained at their task. These workers came daily to earn wages through such toil—but how could they evade sudden eruptions? Was this not peril incarnate? For this mountain had erupted repeatedly of late; mud spewed mere days prior still lay damp underfoot.

At times, should one misstep and sink in, their heel would be swallowed deep. I had my wooden clogs snatched away repeatedly; the fumarolic gases emitted bubbling sounds as mud surged up with the plumes, at times reaching what must have been several feet in height. In the end, I could no longer remain there for long. I departed for Kusatsu. The roads were mostly level; amidst the open areas on both sides where weeds grew thickly, irises caught the eye as they swayed in continuous succession. After proceeding but a short while longer, there were waterfalls cascading down on both sides. It is called Jōfu Falls. It also belongs among things worth seeing. From here, there were valleys on both sides. Depths of several fathoms. The path that divides them was the mountain spur. To liken it, there was a sensation akin to walking along a horse’s back. Therefore, its endpoint was precisely where the two valleys converged. There was a bridge allowing passage.

Having arrived here, it was already Kusatsu (the following text is missing) (From the 1897 Song Collection Notebook)