Pathway to Japanese Literature

Author: Ōmachi Keigetsu

I Gonohe

At the northern extremity of Honshu rose Mount Hakkōda; its mountain range extended southward, divided Nambu and Tsugaru, then continued further south to separate Tōkaidō from Hokuriku, before bending westward to part San'yōdō and San'indō.
Stretching several hundred ri in length, it resembled nothing so much as a colossal serpent.
The Chūgoku Mountain Range formed its tail.
The mountain ranges of Kōshin were its belly.
Mount Hakkōda was its head.
Upon this head lay an eye.
Spanning approximately three ri square, it stood as our nation's largest 'Mountain Lake'.
This is called Lake Towada.

Toryabe Shuntei came to visit me one day.
He stated he had visited Nikko.
“How curious!” I remarked. “That someone like you—who disdains travel—should visit Nikko! Were I asked what contrary wind blew you there... Though I might extol its splendors having seen them myself—there must be another purpose.”
“I intend to return home after this long absence and bring my mother,” he replied.
“While I’m at it, I wish to guide you to my hometown’s Lake Towada.”
“In my youth, I often played there and came to consider it the supreme scenic wonder under heaven.”
“Yet knowing no other celebrated sites, this conviction might well be my own fancy alone.”
“To verify this comparison, I visited Nikko—renowned throughout the land—and beheld Kegon Falls and Lake Chūzenji, yet became convinced my Lake Towada not only matches but surpasses them.”
“I implore you—come and see!”

As for me, what one might call the groundwork was agreeable; your proposal seemed excellent.
I accepted it with joyful resolve.

Hasegawa Tenkei was also supposed to accompany us, but due to his child’s illness, this did not come to pass.
Shuntei, Hyakusui, and I—the three of us—set out on August 26, Meiji 41 (1908).
Taking the coastal line, we arrived at Shirinai Station the following afternoon.
Mr. Urayama Tarōbei, Mr. Miura Michitarō, Mr. Sekine Kazue, and five or six students came to greet us.
Mr. Miura, we three in our party joined carriages and set out for Gonohe.
This was Shuntei’s hometown.
Before the Meiji Restoration, this was where the Nambu Domain magistrate resided—a place where both cultural and martial arts flourished, they say.
Approximately one hundred male and female students from Gonohe came to greet us at the village border.
We arrived at Mr. Matsuo Yoshirō’s house.
He was Shuntei's brother-in-law.
Open-hearted and magnanimous, skilled in conversation—nothing but warm hospitality greeted him.
He practiced as a physician.
He was president of the Youth Association.
Mr. Edo Matahē and Mr. Toryabe Kennosuke arrived.
All were relatives of Shuntei.
They drank merrily with a young lady pouring sake.
Mr. Matsubara Chūjirō—younger brother of Mr. Yoshirō—was a prodigious drinker.
Ōnishi Kisaburō, Naitō Nobuo, and Fukushi Hideo arrived as representatives of the Youth Association.
Beer and Aomori’s famous apples were presented.
After becoming intoxicated, I engaged in a game of Go with Mr. Edo Matahē.

For eight hundred years, they say it had been Gonohe's foremost old family of impeccable lineage.
His face resembled a warrior painting.

II Tenmankan

On the morning of the 28th, in response to the Youth Association’s request, we proceeded to the elementary school girls’ division building designated as their venue.
Mr. Matsuo Yoshirō delivered the opening address, and Shuntei and I gave speeches.
This place was the cliff summit.
I hear this was formerly the site where the magistrate's office once stood.

The Matsuo brothers, Mr. Ōnishi Kisaburō, Mr. Edo Tomio, and others guided our party to Tenmankan.
We looked down upon the upper reaches of the Gonohe River basin and gazed out at the distant peaks of Mount Hakkōda.
They spread a mat in the green shade and rested.
They drew Tenman Water, reputed as this region’s foremost pure spring, and brewed tea.
The breeze was cool; the comfort profound.

Mr. Matsubara Chūjirō pointed to the houses below our feet and said, “This is called Gonohe’s Shimomachi.”
“In the Kyōhō era, there was a man called Suzuki Shinbei.”
“He was entrusted with this village’s land register.”
“A villain, intending to steal money, burned the house at night.”
“Shinbei found no path to escape.”
“He buried the land register in the ground and pressed his stomach upon it as he burned to death.”
“He perished, and the land register remained intact.”
“The magistrate was moved and posthumously awarded him for this.”
“As I now survey this very land before us, my emotions grow ever deeper.”
“Truly, he should be called a man of samurai spirit!”

On our return, we paused briefly at Mr. Kikuchi Manjō’s villa; in the afternoon, responding to requests from Gonohe’s eager residents, we proceeded to Sennenji Temple, which had been allocated as their venue.
Mr. Kanazawa Jirō, Vice-Chief of Gonohe Village Office, delivered the opening address; Shuntei and I gave speeches.
Approximately one hundred people attended.

Having lodged at Mr. Matsuo’s house for two nights, Hyakusui, responding to various gentlemen’s requests, inscribed fans; I provided titles for them.
In Gonohe, it is said that fans sold out in a single day, and there were many who wished to request inscriptions but found no way to obtain fans.

On the morning of the 29th, seen off by Mr. Matsuo Yoshirō, Mr. Edo Matahē, the Youth Association executives, and young men and women students at the village border, we finally departed from the land of Gonohe.

III Utarube

At last, we set out on foot toward our destination, Lake Towada.
With Mr. Miura Michitarō, Mr. Edo Shōzō, Mr. Matsubara Chūjirō, and Shuntei’s younger brother Mr. Ryōta added to our party, we traveled together as seven people.
Mr. Miura was the host of our eastern journey.
Mr. Edo had come specially to guide us to Sambongi after we would descend the mountain.

When they arrived at Torai Village, Messrs. Kosaka Jintoku, Kosaka Hozo, and Mitaki Genko were waiting on the road for their party and hosted them with sake and confections at Kosaka School.
They responded to requests and performed calligraphy.
After resting for approximately three hours, they departed.

Around the time they crossed Ushinosu Pass, dusk fell.
Lighting their way with lanterns and wisteria-bark torches, they arrived at Utarube on Lake Towada’s shore at 10 p.m., lodging at Mr. Miura’s house.
Mr. Michitarō’s father Izumihachi had been a man who—around Meiji 16-17—first opened the road from Gonohe, built ships, undertook cargo transport for Kosaka Mine, and developed Utarube.
The settlement now comprised twenty-four or twenty-five households; there were rice paddies and dry fields.
The farmers cultivated crops while also fishing in the lake and hunting in the mountains.
Truly, Izumihachi deserved to be called a mountain king!
This was indeed a realm beyond worldly cares—where shutters remained unlocked at night with no threat of bandits.
Where none fell ill, medicine found no purpose.
I myself had grown up in Tosa’s castle town until Meiji 13 [1880], yet never locked our shutters at night.
Whether this still holds true today—I cannot say.

IV Yasumiya

On the 30th, we set out for Yasumiya.
Mr. Kazuo, son of Mr. Michitarō, and his cousin Mr. Kohei Shirō newly joined.
Both were young students.
From Utarube to Yasumiya was approximately one ri; old trees grew thickly.
There were also many large katsura trees.
Hops flowers yellow; crownvetch flowers purple.
Even with wheel-stem grass and kogomi growing here, it was known how distant we were from Nikko.
To our surprise, Suzuki Naonobu, Nakamura Hidekichi, and Kawamura Tōgorō—three gentlemen from Yasumiya—accompanied by male and female students, met our party on the path.
Goodwill manifested even in the grasses along the narrow path, the mowing marks still fresh.

Yasumiya was the central point of all Towada settlements.
Towada Shrine stood here.
Extraordinary sights converged in this area.
They arrived at the residence of Mr. Oda Yojirō—a shrine priest who concurrently managed an inn.
After receiving hospitality of sake and delicacies, they departed under Mr. Oda’s guidance.
Along Lake Towada’s shore grew cedars found nowhere else—their aligned forms stretching into an enduring colonnade.
They paid respects at Towada Shrine,
which enshrined Yamato Takeru.
They ascended precipitous crags,
confronting shrines dedicated to Nansobō and Hachirō Tarō at the mountainside.
Descending a nine-ken iron ladder to Ousho vantage point,
they overlooked Middle Sea’s expanse while surveying Mikura Mountain across waters.
Four students waited aboard a vessel—
all Gonohe locals who had sequentially joined this excursion out of affection for our company.
The entire party embarked,
launching westward to gaze upon Middle Sea’s western cliffs before retreating upon nearing Rōsoku-iwa—Candle Rock—rising solitarily from depths.
From Lake Towada’s foreland they diverged,
inspecting cavern shrines to Daikokuten,
Amano-Iwato,
and deities of Wealth,
Mountains,
Fire,
and Wind;
emerged at West Sea’s strand;
observed proximate Ebisu Island;
then paused briefly at Mr. Oda’s dwelling before twilight return to Utarube.

V Rock Summit Banquet

Lake Towada is surrounded by mountains on all four sides. Silver mines and lead mines lie to the west. The highest peak in the east is Mount Towada; in the south, Maeyama; and in the north, Hanabeyama. According to Dai Nippon Chishi, the lake's surface lies at an elevation of 450 meters, while Hanabeyama reaches approximately 960 to 970 meters. The lake spreads widest in the north, its shoreline forming nearly a perfect semicircle without indentations. From east to west it measures approximately three ri, while its southern portion forms three great bays: East Sea, Middle Sea, and West Sea—each roughly equal in size. Utarube rests on the southern shore of East Sea. To the left rises Mikura Mountain at the tip of Mikura Peninsula; further left stands Mount Towada; ahead looms Hanabeyama. To the right of Hanabeyama emerge two peaks—the western called Norikura-dake, the eastern Akakura-yama. All surrounding mountains belong to government ownership. The profusion of trees here finds few equals elsewhere—all deciduous species that in late autumn encircle the azure waters with a crimson curtain of foliage. Even among mountain lakes, Towada's expanse measures thrice that of Lake Chūzenji in Nikko or more. The road winds around the lake for approximately ten ri, while its shoreline stretches fifteen ri in length.

On the morning of the 31st, yesterday’s party boarded a boat and departed from Utarube.
Shuntei alone remained.
Despite his chronic hemorrhoids flaring up and causing severe bleeding—which he disregarded—he had mustered his courage to climb the mountain for our sake; this day was meant for rest and recuperation.
The scenery of Lake Towada was already intimately familiar to him.
There was also much conversation to be had with his old acquaintance Mr. Miura Senhachi.

Rounding the edge of Mikura Mountain, they entered the Middle Sea, gazing up at the cliffs of Mikura Peninsula as they progressed.
This marked the eastern shore of the Middle Sea.
The cliffs rose sheer from the lake surface—towering high above, with waters both deep and crystalline.
Breaking off a stone just small enough to cradle in both hands from the shore, they dropped it into the water; peering down, they watched it flutter-sink like a fish—first sea bream-sized, then sardine-sized, then goldfish-sized—until it vanished beyond sight.
The boatman said, “Within Lake Towada, this Middle Sea runs deepest.”
“Once they lowered a hundred-fathom rope here—still couldn’t touch bottom.”
“Geologists say,” he continued, “the whole lake formed from land subsidence—but this Middle Sea? That’s a volcanic crater.”
Starting from Higurashizaki, numerous cliffs jutted outward.
These were better termed cliffs than capes.
All were colossal rocks.
Yet each bore young pines.
There stood a cavern.
It was called O-muro.
Inside, the cavern split into two passages.
Both terminated after several ken.

The cape where small stones clustered like swords was called Ken-iwa, and the cape forming a grove of young pines was called Senbonmatsu.
From Akanesaki, the cliffs—dominated by crimson hues yet tinged with variegated colors—stretched southward for over ten chō, arching through the sky like a great rainbow.
I found Mikura Mountain to be the most striking feature along this eastern shore of the Middle Sea.
The thousand-foot cliff rose from the northwest, curved southward to reach the east, encircling an entire mountain.
Its length must have been twenty-four or twenty-five chō.
Such a feature had no equal elsewhere.
When I asked if it had a name, he replied there was none.
When I suggested naming it Senjō no Maku (Thousand-Fathom Curtain), they all approved.
If it had been called Hyakken Maku (Hundred-Ken Curtain), there would have been many others elsewhere.
Senjō no Maku (Thousand-Fathom Curtain) was a distinctive feature of Mikura Mountain and had long been one of Lake Towada’s defining characteristics.
Because of this great cliff, people could not ascend this mountain from the land.
The entire mountain was covered in trees; along Lake Towada's shore, the monkeys dwelt solely on this mountain.
When autumn evenings brought ripe fruits to the trees, troops of monkeys howled beneath the moonlit night.
It was said that when worshippers threw rice and offered prayers at the sacred oracle site on the opposite shore, a white mist would ascend this mountain on festival days.
Even merely gazing upon it sufficed—the sole sacred mountain gracing Lake Towada's shores.

When they arrived at Senbonmatsu, a white sail bearing the Rising Sun flag approached.
This was the people of Yasumiya village coming to welcome us.
The southern shore of the Middle Sea lacked the wonders found elsewhere.
We had viewed the western shore by boat yesterday.
Compared to the eastern shore, the water here was shallower.
The scenery of the cliffs was also inferior.
Immediately rowing to the northernmost peak, the entire group disembarked there.
Here, a banquet formed through the goodwill of Yasumiya village was held.
The hosts consisted of Messrs. Oda Yojirō, Nakamura Haruyoshi, Suzuki Naonobu, Kawamura Matsugorō, and Kuriayama Masaharu.
The main guests and hosts relaxed their formalities and became pleasantly drunk.
This place is called Nakayamazaki.
This entire peninsula is called Ko-Nakayama.
It is a small mountain range separating the Middle Sea and the West Sea.

When the banquet concluded, the entire group boarded Yasumiya’s boat and bid farewell to the Middle Sea.

The Middle Sea spanned roughly one square ri, its northern side connecting to the lake’s center while cliffs and blue-green trees encircled its eastern, western, and southern aspects—a realm apart within a realm apart.

They entered the West Sea and advanced their boat near the eastern shore.
Suddenly, someone plunged into the water with a loud splash.
It was Mr. Oda, the shrine priest.
The host had already set the example; how could the guests refrain from following suit?
I followed him into the water.
Mr. Miura Michitarō also swam.
The others—several people—also swam.
The eastern shore of this West Sea had waters not as deep as those of the Middle Sea’s eastern shore.
On the capes, there were also places where hexagonal formations stood side by side.
Islands were numerous.
Gumijima, Hōraijima, Tanegashima, Yoroijima, Kabutojima, Ebisujima, and others—these were they.
Some were large, some small; some tall, some low—yet all were rocks.
And each and every one bore young pines.
In Matsushima, there are these trees but not these rocks; in Oshika Peninsula, there are these rocks but not these trees.
The world’s scenic beauties: Lake Towada alone monopolizes their glory.
They abandoned the boat and arrived at Shirakago Shrine.
Shirakago Shrine stood atop a solitary crag measuring several tens of jō.
Three times they climbed the iron ladder before finally reaching it.
They felt as though they were nearly ascending to heaven.
Not even Myōgi’s Ōjiwa or Kyokujitsudake possess such marvels.

How much more wondrous where water exists!

At dusk, they arrived at Mr. Oda's house.
The four men—Mr. Etō Shōzō, Mr. Toryabe Ryōta, Mr. Kodaira Shirō, and Mr. Miura Kazuo—walked back toward Utarube.
Mr. Miura Michitarō, Mr. Matsubara Torajirō, Hyakusui, and I lodged at his house through Mr. Oda's kindness.
In the evening, another banquet was held.
As the banquet grew lively, singing voices rose beyond the building.
Looking out, they saw dozens of people forming a circle as they danced and sang.
This was a Bon dance—all the villagers seeking to enliven our journey.

VI. Tatami-ishi

When dawn broke, it was September 1.
Two boys of the Miura clan came from Utarube.
After taking leave of Mr. Oda, they boarded a boat together, reached a place called Ote, and viewed Mr. Wainai Sadayuki’s hatchery.
Now was not the hatching season.
There were alcohol-preserved specimens.
The process from egg to fully formed fish was shown in detail.
Mr. Wainai had procured trout called Kabachiepo from Hokkaido and had been cultivating them here for years.
The water of this lake appeared well-suited to these Kabachiepo, for their growth rate surpassed even that of their native habitat.
They bear Mr. Wainai's name.
In all of mainland Japan, this trout exists only here.For his achievements,the Medal with Green Ribbon was awarded.
Since arriving on this mountain,I had daily savored fresh trout.
My deepest thanks—this was Mr.Wainai’s gift.

They took the boat out to the center of the lake.
The waves grew rough.
At what appeared to be the midpoint between Mikura Mountain and Hanabe Mountain stood two large rocks side by side, barely exposing their heads.
The space between them measured approximately twenty ken; below lay depths unseen.
This was called Mikado Rock.
They advanced further by boat to reach the eastern shore of the lake and view Tatami-ishi.
A massive flat rock measuring ten ken east-west and approximately one hundred ken north-south rose a mere five or six sun above the water’s surface—perfectly level.
Continuing south and north for over one hundred ken beyond this point—even where submerged—it maintained this uniform elevation of five or six sun beneath the water.
Upon this rock’s surface remained ample space to bear hundreds of thousands.
Truly an unparalleled monolith.
Later I would learn that nearby beneath these waters lay what people called Goban-ishi—a formation shaped like a go board complete with legs at its four corners.
How prodigiously Creation toys with marvels!

At dusk, when we returned to Mr. Miura’s house, Mr. Etō and the Shuntei brothers were nowhere to be found.
That morning, the Etō group and the Shuntei brothers had descended the mountain toward Sanbongi and were to wait for me at Tsuta Onsen.

VII. Hanabe Mountain

On September 2, we had planned to descend and meet Shuntei and the others at Tsuta Onsen; however, I proposed a new motion.
Though we had nearly exhausted every nook in viewing Lake Towada horizontally, I argued that unless we also overlooked it vertically from above, we could not yet claim to have truly seen Lake Towada in its entirety—to which Hyakusui agreed, and Mr. Miura concurred.
After much deliberation over whether to choose Mikura Mountain, Towada Mountain, or Hanabe Mountain, we finally settled on Hanabe Mountain.

Matsubara Torajirō and Kodaira Shirō parted ways and departed toward Gonohe.

Mr. Miura Michitarō and his son, Hyakusui, and I—the four of us—boarded a boat and landed at a place called Aobuna in the northeastern corner of the lake. Here was a pasture. A flock of sheep slept by the lakeside. They arrived at the guard hut, boiled water, had lunch, and departed. Two boatmen; one of them served as the guide. Approximately thirty chō [three kilometers], they left the lakeshore and ascended the mountain. Where grazing cattle came and went, a natural path had formed that made for easy walking; but when they climbed the sheer rocky cliffs where even cattle could not reach, there was no path. Therefore, there was no path. The entire mountain was thick with ancient trees. Of them, seventy to eighty percent were beech trees. As they ascended, ground bamboo grew densely. A fine rain fell. Water that collected on the leaves transformed into large drops by the wind and fell. When they pushed aside the ground bamboo and thickets, the scattering of droplets grew even more frequent, as though they walked through water. At long last they reached what seemed to be the summit, but due to the thick fog, there was not a single vista to behold. Gnats swarmed at their faces and clustered on their hands. Their entire bodies soaked through, the cold penetrating to their bones. When they gathered dry bamboo with little moisture and lit a fire, even the moistened dead trees and bamboo burned. The four of them surrounded the fire and took warmth. The gnats left and did not approach.

The guide did not warm himself by the fire but walked about here and there; he cut four stalks of ground bamboo and brought them.
They were to be made into walking sticks.
The base measured seven or eight sun in diameter.
They must have endured several hundred years of seasonal changes.
They had warmed themselves by the fire for nearly an hour; but when they tried to leave before nightfall, the guide was nowhere to be found.
Contrary to their expectation that the return would be easy, without a guide, they lost their direction and wandered in the dense bamboo.
Fortunately, as it was the boundary between Aomori and Akita prefectures, there were small wooden markers approximately every ten ken.
Each time they barely found one marker, they would consider the direction of the next marker; upon locating that marker, they would again deliberate on the next one—relying also on memories from their ascent—until at last they arrived at a place where a cattle path existed.
The guide had been waiting for us a long time.
Accustomed to his intimate knowledge of the terrain, it had never once occurred to him that we might lose our way.
Hanshan’s sigh—“The wise abandon me; fools I abandon”—was it not this?

Though we could gain no vista that day due to the dense fog, I grew certain our rationale for designating Hanabe Mountain as Lake Towada's overlook could not have erred.

VIII. Oirase Stream

Having been hospitably received by Mr. Miura and his son and lodged in Utarube for four nights, and having accepted the kindness of Yasumiya's entire village to stay there one night—five nights in total—I departed from this Lake Towada rich in poetic interest.

September 3. Mr. Michitarō and his son, Hyakusui, and I—the four of us—were accompanied by a man carrying our luggage. On the way, we encountered Mr. Ogasawara Enkichi and Mr. Ōta Kichiji—two men who had come from Tsuta Onsen to meet us. Yesterday too they had come all the way to Utarube to meet us, only to return empty-handed.

The place where the lake water becomes a river and flows out is called Nenokuchi. This flow is called the Oirase River. A bridge spans it. It measures thirteen or fourteen ken (approximately 24–25 meters) in length. The water flows gently. One can also see fish in the water. We descended along the right bank. The path was gentle. After thirteen chō [1.4 kilometers], we reached Nenokuchi Falls. It cascades down the cliffs of the Oirase River. Height: three jō [9 meters]; width: ten jō [30 meters]. Since the waters of Lake Towada—spanning three ri [approximately 12 kilometers] in every direction—gather and cascade down, the water volume is abundant. If we consider only breadth, others of its kind are not few elsewhere. To eyes that have seen photographs of Niagara, it feels unsatisfying. However, this stream possesses a scenic charm difficult to find elsewhere. From the lake mouth to where the Tsuta River flows in—approximately three ri (12 kilometers)—there were many islands.

All were covered with trees. Many rocks stood in the water. They too were all covered with trees. This was the distinguishing feature of Oirase Stream. Streams ordinarily had steep gradients and experienced drastic fluctuations in water levels; even when rocks lay submerged, there was no means for trees to take root upon them. Alone among streams, Oirase differed in this regard: its flow remained gentle with nearly imperceptible gradient, for Lake Towada’s entire mountain being thickly wooded prevented floods entirely—particularly through ancient trees veiling the sky. Even so, with occasional rapids here and there, it never became monotonous. Truly, over three ri (12 kilometers), large beech, katsura, oak, and horse chestnut trees grew thickly together, with kadsura vines hanging. They looked up but saw no sky. Below, the undergrowth grew thick. Hydrangeas bloomed here; hops flowers blossomed. No matter how scorching the heavens, those who traversed this place would never know summer existed. To both left and right stood cliffs. They bore waterfalls. Shirafudo Falls was considered the most scenic. Shirasu Falls, Shimai Falls, Kumoi Falls, Tana Falls, and others were those with established names, yet there were also many that remained unnamed. Their heights all exceeded ten jō (30 meters). Some had their drop points hidden by dense foliage; others had their lower sections obscured, making them feel all the more profoundly serene. Those who visited Lake Towada yet did not see this stream could not be said to have truly seen Lake Towada.

Along the riverside stood a large rock that had naturally formed into a shelter capable of accommodating over a dozen people.
Mr. Ōta said, “This was Onimatsu the Demon’s lurking place.”

The Oirase River too becomes an ordinary stream after merging with the Tsuta River.
Here stood a perilous bridge.
It was called Saruhashi.
They utilized a large tree growing diagonally, laying a log from midway up its trunk to the opposite bank.
People would climb the tree and traverse this log.
It formed a most peculiar sort of bridge.
Yet with handholds among the branches and copper wires installed, it proved less treacherous than it appeared.

We ascended half a ri along the Tsuta River's left bank, crossed Tenkō Bridge, and continued another half a ri to reach Tsuta Onsen.
It was eight in the evening.

The Shuntei brothers were no longer present.
Mr. Etō Shōzō alone remained behind and waited for me.
The mayor of Hōōse Village, Mr. Kōichi Ogasawara, had also specially come to wait for me and served us food and drink.
This hot spring was managed by Mr. Ogasawara Kōichi and Mr. Ogasawara Enkichi.
Around this time, they expanded the buildings, improved the roads, and made it possible for rickshaws to come through from Sambongi.
The spring's quality was that of a saline spring.

9. Matsumi Falls

Mr. Ōta Kichiji’s physique was unparalleled in robustness; his legs were especially strong. These mountains had no corner left untouched by his footsteps. He would often venture out alone with provisions for several days. People called him "Mountain God." When asked how many leagues one could walk in a day, he would say about five. Though they called him "Mountain God," indeed, that seemed fitting—for traveling five leagues over pathless steep mountains proved more arduous than covering fifteen across flat land.

“There are many waterfalls around here,” remarked Mr. Ōta. “Those worth seeing number no fewer than twenty. Among them, Matsumi Falls stands as the largest. I implore you—go and behold it. I shall guide you there.” This too lay within Towada’s domain.

Deeming it something they could not miss seeing, they acquiesced.

We stayed one night at Tsuta Onsen, and when dawn came, it was raining.
Mr. Ōta said, “There is no path to Matsumi Falls.”
“We’d need to ford the stream forty times; if the water rises, we can’t go.”
“In this rain, it’s dangerous.”
“Since we had no choice but to postpone until tomorrow—”
“When entering a village, follow its customs; when entering the mountains, one must simply obey the ‘Mountain God’s’ commands”—so we heeded his words.
Though I could not help but sense Shuntei’s growing impatience, since he too understood that this journey’s primary purpose was to explore Towada’s landscapes, I resolved to adhere to our principal aim rather than yield to Shuntei.

At ten in the morning, the “Mountain God” came again and declared, “With conditions like this, we can proceed.”
“Do you possess the valor to brave the rain?”
“We do!” we responded resolutely, rising to depart.
Hyakusui stuffed gifted silk floss into his back, borrowed a quilted coat, covered his head with a baori hood, fastened habaki leggings about his calves, and cloaked himself in a straw rain cape.
Mr. Ōta strode ahead while a man guarded me from behind as we advanced.

Traversing pathless mountains up and down several times, it took one and a half hours until they emerged at Kise River’s stream.
From this point onward, as Mr. Ōta had foretold, they would ford the Kise River forty times.
The left bank had many waterfalls.
Among these, what is called Nabekura Falls first flows rapidly for about two jō [6 meters], then shoots upward diagonally like a fountain; after traveling approximately three jō [9 meters], it strikes a rock wall and cascades down a five-to-six-jō [15–18 meter] cliff.
It was a striking waterfall that would impress casual observers.

There was a gravel shoal, and the water flowed to both sides.
This place is said to be called Gosho Riverbed.
Finding the name intriguing, they rested, drinking sake and eating a meal.
A bottle of sake still remained.
“Shall we carry it all the way to the waterfall basin?” they said.
No, no—to say one cannot view a waterfall without sake is still but half-baked dilettantism in refined appreciation—and so they left all their luggage here and climbed up again.

Matsumi Falls is also known as Kise Falls. The entire mountain lay bare to its bones, its summit cleft like shears. From the convergence point, a river's waters gathered and plunged straight down—some twenty jō in height—then cascaded over another five to six jō of rock below. The split crag above bore young pines upon its crown. When I turned to look behind me, a colossal rock pierced the heavens, its peak too sprouting young pines. In these surrounding mountains, pine trees grow nowhere else; it is said this singular presence gives Matsumi Falls its name. When I asked about the rock's composition, he answered basalt. Merely hearing of crags adorned with pines and a thirty-jō waterfall would set the spirits of seasoned mountain wanderers soaring—such ought to be its power.

At 7:15 p.m., they returned to the hot spring inn.
Thirty minutes for lunch; ten minutes' rest at the waterfall basin; the remaining eight and a half hours had been spent walking without a moment's respite—yet the total distance covered was likely no more than four ri round trip.

10. Sanbongi

September 5: Arising early in the morning, they set out for a hot spring pond located one or two chō away.
A dugout canoe lay ready, and with poles also at hand, they poled their way forward.
The water was clear.
The bottom appeared to be clay; even when poled, it did not become turbid.
They saw carp and goldfish swimming.
Surrounded by forested mountains on all sides, secluded birds sang in harmony.
The marsh measured seven chō in breadth.
To the sacred spring was added this garden of immortals.
Yet solely due to its remote location, those in the world who knew of it were few.

They set out for Sanbongi.
Mr. Kōshichi—father of Mr. Kōichi—and his uncle Mr. Zenkichi saw them off at the gate.
His son Mr. Shin’go—a student at Tōhoku Gakuin—accompanied us.
The “Mountain God” accompanied us as well.
A man carried the group’s luggage.
I—bound by my promise with Shuntei—had made him wait in vain for three days.

Today, having met him, I could not but apologize for my transgression.

To our surprise, local enthusiasts from Hōkuzawa Village intercepted us on the road, ushered us into a pavilion, and plied us with sake.
Village Mayor Mr. Kōichi Ogasawara at the head, followed by Messrs. Toshio Suzuki, Tomegorō Nakayama, Yasushi Aizawa, Matsujirō Ogasawara, Kanzō Ōta, Tōichi Okuyama, Teiichi Tsunoda, Kanzo Metoki, Tomonori Suzuki, and Chōgorō Higashi—all were lined up in a row.
To hear my lecture, they had excused upper-grade students from class and brought them along.
"We ask that you consent to this," they declared.
Though I had nothing to speak of, I couldn’t very well refuse.

Dozens of students came and lined up.
I was greatly flustered.
What on earth had I babbled about?
Mr. Aizawa Yasushi was a physician who excelled at haiku and went by the pseudonym Gyōson.
He was a haiku poet of the Nihon school.
A verse welcoming me had been presented.
How curious! Until now, I had only been asked everywhere—this was the first time I had received.

Here, upon receiving a letter from Shuntei, I learned for the first time of Tenkei’s child’s death from illness.
We boarded the welcoming carriage and arrived in Sanbongi.
The "Mountain God" was still with us.
We lodged at An’ya Ryokan.
After six days, I was reunited with Shuntei.

That evening, we attended a welcome party hosted by Sanbongi enthusiasts at Isshintei.
Sakai Mikito, Kawasaki Shinbei, Iwadate Seiso, and Ōshima Ichitarō served as initiators; Principal Takao Kakutarō of the Livestock School; its faculty members Satō, Kiba, Itamochi, Satō, and Hisatake; President Sugiyama Katsumi of the Reclamation Company; its employee Ichinoe Yoshitaka; along with Mr. Tsuchiya Hiroshi, Mr. Namioka Kiyomatsu, and others—joined by our party, Mr. Miura, Mr. Eto, and the "Mountain God"—gathered together, totaling over twenty people.
Mr. Iwadate delivered a welcoming address, and I responded to it.
We drank heartily.
In addition to the maidservants, two or three geisha could also be seen.
Mr. Hisa was a fellow townsman and my schoolmate from our days at the First Higher Middle School; we met again after nearly twenty years.

11. Taiso-zuka

Sanbongi, now quite a city, had no houses until forty or fifty years ago.
Indeed, during the Ansei era (1854–1860), this was tied to reclamation efforts led by Nitobe Den, a samurai of the Nambu Domain.
He may truly be called a distinguished figure.
His son Mr. Jūjirō was also of statesman's caliber.
He assisted his father and brought the enterprise to fruition.
The present Dr. Nitobe is indeed the son of that Mr. Jūjirō.
The Mr. Sakai Mikito who welcomed us was the youngest son of Mr. Den.
He bore a resemblance to Marquis Saionji in both appearance and demeanor, exuding the bearing of a venerable elder.
Though Dr. Nitobe authored Bushido: The Soul of Japan in English to assert the spirit of Japanese samurai, one cannot help but reflect on how deeply rooted this was in his family's legacy.

September 6: Early in the morning, guided by Takao Kakujirō, principal of the Livestock School, we went to the school, examined every nook and cranny, and received a detailed explanation.
Having returned, we proceeded to a youth meeting held at the Livestock Office, where Shuntei and I delivered speeches.
In addition to the youths, many others such as Mr. Sakai, Mr. Takao, Mr. Iwadate, Mr. Kawashima, and others had gathered.

Beside the Livestock Office stood Taiso-zuka.
This was truly where they had interred Mr. Nitobe Den—a man of distinction.
To its left stood a small shrine.
There rested the spirit of Mr. Jūjirō.
Behind the tomb stretched a broad lawn where vistas unfolded without obstruction.
People called this place Setoyama.
Southward rose Nagui-dake; northward loomed Osorezan's clustered peaks.
Eastward stretched an endless expanse of sea.
Westward ran mountain chains linking Mount Hakkōda to Lake Towada—all veiled in clouds that day.
Nearby lay Sanbongi Field, famed pastureland where autumn-fattened horses by the thousand whinnied in windswept distances.
Oshu's landscapes—how mightily grand!

Due to my having made Shuntei wait in vain for three days and various other circumstances, he had been unable to attend the welcome party hosted by Hachinohe's enthusiasts.
I proceeded together with Hyakusui.
Shuntei—who had been prepared to go—did not.
Tenkei could not undertake the journey.
Among literary men, I alone went.
How profound must have been Hachinohe citizens' disappointment.
I parted with Harue.
At this time I also took leave of Mr. Miura, Mr. Eto, and Mr. Ōta—the three gentlemen who had welcomed us, guided us, and seen us off.
I humbly expressed my gratitude for these gentlemen's kindness.

We boarded the stagecoach and departed Sanbongi.
Mr. Ōshima escorted us to the road.
Mr. Iwadate escorted us as far as Komaki Station, where we shared a light drink in a pavilion's upper room before parting.
Mr. Kawasaki Shinbei still saw the two of us off and boarded the train together.

12. Monomiiwa

Hachinohe was originally the site of a Nambu branch domain; with a population of twenty thousand, it stood as the sole major city in eastern Mutsu north of Morioka.
On land, trains ran in succession; by sea, it commanded Same Port.
There were two newspapers.
They were called "Hachinohe" and "Okunanshimpō."
What first caught one's eye in the town were the many districts bearing day numbers in their names—Mikka-machi, Muika-machi, Hatsuka-machi, and others.

When we alighted at Shiriuchi Station, Mr. Urayama Tarōbei came to greet us.
Mr. Meguro Saori, editor-in-chief of the Hachinohe Newspaper; Mr. Ōshima Katsuzō, director; Mr. Sekino Jūsaburō, president of the Okunan Shimpō; Mr. Urayama Jūgorō, president of the printing company; Mr. Itō Tomisaburō, bookseller; and others also came to greet us.
We passed Hachinohe Station, alighted at Minato Station, and then boarded a stagecoach.
In addition to the three of us from Sanbongi, Mr. Urayama and Mr. Ōshima also boarded the stagecoach.
Mr. Ōshima had come all the way to Sanbongi the previous day specifically to meet us, only to return in vain.

At the place where the houses of Same Port stood, we alighted from the carriage and made our way toward Monomiiwa. A gentleman in Western clothes came with a telescope slung over his shoulder. This was Mr. Kita Mura Masu—the mayor of Hachinohe, president of the Hachinohe Newspaper, who held over thirty other leadership positions—said to be Hachinohe’s foremost wealthy citizen.

Same Port, with Kabushima lying before it, possessed scenic charm. As for the vista from Monomiiwa, it truly reached the pinnacle of grandeur. A vast, elongated hillock covered entirely in grass jutted out into the sea—already such a sight was rare. To the east, it immediately bordered the Pacific Ocean. To the south lay Taneichi Mountain and Nagui-dake; to the west, the mountain range surrounding Lake Towada; to the north, the Osorezan massif—all seemed to pay homage to me from afar. The so-called twenty-thousand-koku expanse of Okuto lay captured within a single gaze. The sun sank westward; evening clouds crimsoned; the twelfth-night moon hung in the sky—already it was bright. The grand vista of Monomiiwa—I had not imagined it; upon seeing it, I was astonished by its unexpected magnificence.

We took a brief rest at Ishida Ryokan, the foremost inn in Same Port, then boarded a carriage and arrived at Manyōtei in Konakano.
Kita Mura Masu, Hashimoto Hachiemon, Meguro Saori, Uchida Yohee, Ōkubo Tokujirō, Ishibashi Genzaburō, Yasunari Masaharu, Yoneda Uhee, Nambu Kōnei, Fukushi Kyōjo, Itō Kahei, Ōkubo Chūichi, Natsubori Gen’ichirō, Toda Risaburō, Ōashi Goro, Sekino Jūsaburō, Fukuda Otoko, Nagai Shōsaburō, Urayama Jūgorō, Itō Tomisaburō, Ōshima Katsuzō, Maeda Toshisada—all these gentlemen were joined by Urayama Rōjin and Mr. Kawasaki of Sanbongi—and a grand banquet commenced.
Mr. Meguro delivered the opening address; I offered remarks in response.
Seventeen or eighteen geisha of varying ranks appeared.
Having spent days in the mountains with monkeys and cranes as companions—what an abrupt shift this was!
Mr. Yasunari taught at a local middle school and hailed from my hometown.
Three thousand ri apart—yet here we met for the first time.
With inexplicable nostalgia, they presented us with an ancient poem of welcome.
Mr. Nambu belonged to the former Hachinohe lord’s clan and composed haiku masterfully.
He gifted me a verse.
Mr. Ōashi was someone we had chanced upon aboard a train and befriended since Morioka.
A lumber merchant who now owned Hachinohe’s sole smokestack—yet I heard his foundations lay in politics, with literary talent besides.
Amidst the wine-tide, he turned to me:

"The long wait for Ōmachi bears fruit—what a night this is!"

The cassia moon hung unclouded

We had no leisure to view the bright moon beyond the pavilion, kept busy by the endless exchange of wine cups. Elder Urayama, wishing us to hear his parody song "Yūgure ni," had the geisha perform it. We listened to Matsumae Oiwake melodies too. Various Nambu-specific dances unfolded before us—among them, what struck us as most intriguing was the Kanayama Dance. Several geisha formed a circle, faces half-veiled, sashes across their shoulders, crimson skirts peeking through as they moved quietly with baskets in hand, dancing in measured steps. They say this dance was first created long ago when the mineral vein was discovered, then presented for Lord Nambu's appraisal—or so the story goes.

Having taken leave of the banquet and boarded the carriage—this must have been around midnight—we entered Hachinohe Town and were shown to Etori Inn.
The second gathering concluded, and Mr. Ōshima departed.
The third gathering was then held at the front counter.
There was Elder Urayama, and there was Mr. Kawasaki.
The proprietress was still young in years, her nature keen.
Her bewitching eyes tormented men.
Her eaves-like tresses—so verdant they seemed to drip—and Elder Urayama's white hair and beard reflected each other's glow beneath the lamplight.
In jest, they composed an impromptu comic verse.

In Hachinohe, there were two things that surpassed all others:

The proprietress of Etori and Urayama Tarōbei.

Mr. Urayama was an exceptionally active figure in Oshu.
His vitality surged even to his fingertips.
He explored far and wide for sources of wealth, devised various enterprises, never yielding to failure, never hesitating even when squandering vast fortunes.
Aged, yet his spirit grew ever more vigorous.
He was indeed not merely a local celebrity of Hachinohe.

13. Hebi Nuketsu Ana

Parting from Hyakusui, my companion from the capital, and from Mr. Kawasaki of Sanbongi, I alone boarded a carriage with Mr. Ōkubo Tokujirō and headed toward the marble mountain he owned. His son, Mr. Tokugorō, also accompanied us. He was a first-year middle school student—a small, delicate-looking boy. The father had an unyielding constitution; the son’s nerves were overly acute. The contrast proved fascinating. When the carriage could advance no further, we continued on foot and reached the mountain. After observing how marble was excavated, we entered the guardhouse and were treated to food and drink. Yesterday’s vermilion tower contrasted with today’s mountain hut—as the setting changed, so too did the sake’s flavor strike us as amusingly transformed. Mr. Ōkubo had only recently undertaken marble extraction here alongside three others: Hasegawa Eiji, Noro Hikotarō, and Fukui Sukegorō. Mr. Fukui Sukegorō was present. According to their explanation, obtaining massive marble slabs like these had few equals elsewhere. Even extracting a million slabs annually, they claimed, could sustain operations for over a century.

Leaving the hut, they arrived at Hebi Nuketsu Ana.
This was something recorded in books.
The mountain stream flowed through a massive limestone boulder.
Its length measured ten ken; the water depth submerged one’s waist.
Within the cave, the flowing water took on a distinctive character that proved quite intriguing.
They proceeded further to Hebi Nuketsu Ana.
They could advance on foot.
The passage was narrow.
Abrupt ascents gave way to sudden descents.
After progressing about ten ken [18 meters], they turned back.
Had they known they would enter the cave beforehand, they should have prepared fire and brought it along.

They were met by carriage, arrived at the residence of Mr. Ōkubo in Hachinohe, and were lavishly entertained.
Elder Urayama also came.
They returned to the inn in a drunken stupor; it must have already been past twelve o’clock.

14. Harvest Moon Night at Lake Towada

Having stayed two nights in Hachinohe, today I intended to depart. Mr. Ōshima, Mr. Ōashi, Mr. Meguro, and others came to exchange farewells. At Hachinohe Station I parted with Mr. Ōkubo Tokuji; at Shiriuchi Station I bid farewell to Mr. Urayama as well, until at last I became a solitary traveler. Having already ascended to Lake Towada from its eastern side, I now intended to ascend again from its western side. From Shiriuchi Station I transferred to a train, passed through Aomori, arrived at Hirosaki, and gazed up at Mount Iwaki. I had heard that at Chōshō-ji Temple in Hirosaki there was a bell Hōjō Tokiyori had commissioned. Tokiyori's concubine had left him and fallen ill in this land before dying. When Tokiyori came here and learned of this circumstance, they say he ordered a bell cast for her memorial with the account inscribed upon it. Life has its tears. Flowers in a mirror, moon in water—what comes is not refused; what departs is not pursued. Not pursuing does not mean forgetting. Not forgetting does not mean there is lingering attachment. Tokiyori too was a man of tears indeed. That night I lodged at Ikaigari Checkpoint.

When dawn broke, it was September 9th, the fifteenth day of the eighth month by the old calendar. Having arrived once more at Lake Towada’s shore, my heart swelled with resolve to quietly admire the Mid-Autumn moon alone. At 8:00 a.m., I set out, passed through Kosaka Copper Mine, crossed Namari Mountain, and by 7:00 p.m., lodged at Ginzan Inn. This road is said to be twelve ri. However, in reality, it must be about ten ri. Here, there was a single inn. It stood immediately by the water. This was a side business of Mr. Wainai, who managed the hatchery.

That night, the sky clouded over, and the moon I had so anticipated in my heart could not be seen.

On September 10th, I departed from Ginzan, passed through Namariyama, and arrived at Hakke.
This road was said to measure two ri.
The roads from Gonohe, Sambongi, Kosaka, and Komauchi all permitted horses.
As for the path encircling the lake, while other sections allowed horses, only the one-ri stretch from Namariyama to Hakke barred their passage.
At times the path vanished entirely, forcing us to trudge along the sandy shore.
There were perilous stretches that demanded constant vigilance—a truly treacherous route.

In Hakke too, there was only a single inn.
This too faced the water.

There, I rested, ordered trout to be grilled, drained a bottle of sake, and finally bid farewell to Lake Towada.

Lake Towada holds a single myth.
A man called Hachirō Tarō transformed into a dragon and dwelled there.
In accordance with Nansobō’s divine dream, he came here.
Hachirō's dragon raged and fought.
Nansobō countered it with spiritual power.
Hachirō Tarō finally exhausted his strength and departed to create Lake Hachirōgata.
Nansobō long remained enshrined here.
The shrine of Nansobō on Lake Towada’s shore stands as testament to this.
Since ancient times, Ōu had been oppressed by others.
The people of Ōu had always been Hachirō Tarō.
Yet now fortune shifts.
Henceforth, whether we may become Nansobō will depend on how you gentlemen exert your efforts.

Crossing over a mountain from Hakke, I saw Chōshi Falls. Admittedly, though some water remained, its former grandeur lingered only in photographs—reduced to an ordinary waterfall by hydroelectric development—a transformation that was most lamentable.

That night, I lodged in Komauchi; on the following day, the 11th, I boarded a train from Ōdate and, passing through Akita, Yamagata, Yonezawa, Fukushima, Nihonmatsu, Shirakawa, and Utsunomiya, returned to Tokyo.

15. The Characteristics of Lake Towada

This journey consumed eighteen days as I circled Ōu from east to west.
As for rivers—the Abukuma River—I crossed it.
As for the Kitakami River—its upper reaches—I did not see them.
As for the Mogami River—I did not see it; as for the mountains—Mount Iwate, dubbed the Southern Fuji; Mount Iwaki, known as the Tsugaru Fuji; Mount Chōkai; Mount Gassan—all are first-rate peaks of Ōu.
Among them, Mount Chōkai alone towers above all others in height.
It is the sovereign lord of Ōu’s mountains.

However, my primary purpose lay in exploring the wonders of Lake Towada.
Here, in enumerating the essential features of Lake Towada’s scenic wonders, first was its greatness as a mountain lake.
Second came the serene quietude of Oirase Stream being unparalleled in the world.
Third were the mountains surrounding the lake being so densely wooded as to have no equal elsewhere.
Fourth was the beauty of autumn foliage.
Fifth stood the cliffs of the Middle Sea rising tall, their waters’ depth having no equal elsewhere.
Sixth were the islands all being rock and bearing pine trees.
Seventh was how among Oirase’s main stream and tributaries—beginning with Matsumi Falls as the tallest and Nenokuchi Falls as the broadest—the abundance of noteworthy cascades proved such that even Nikko and Shiobara, which are said to have many waterfalls, could not compare.
Additionally, Jikago Shrine’s perilous crags, Mikura Mountain’s Thousand-Fathom Curtain, Mikado Stone, Tatami Stone, and Goban Stone each offered diverse appeal for refined and common tastes alike.
Truly, Lake Towada was one of the world’s foremost scenic sites, having collected all beauties of landscape into one.

I visited Lake Towada and passed through four routes.
If one takes the roads from Kosaka and Komauchi, one may look down upon a portion of the lake.
However, were one to remove Oirase Stream from Lake Towada, the lake’s scenic splendor would lose half its essence.
Moreover, the road from Sambongi passing through Oirase Stream proves most level.
I declare to all who love this land’s mountains and rivers:
By all means, go and see Lake Towada.
Whether going or returning, you must pass through Oirase Stream.
If disinclined to traverse the same path twice, whether choosing Kosaka or Komauchi matters little.
A light railway will soon open from Ōdate to Kosaka Mine.
From Kosaka to the lakeshore lies roughly four ri—some fifteen kilometers.
Future visitors, lured by this convenience, shall come from Kosaka to Namariyama, glimpse Yasumiya’s vicinity, yet likely neglect Oirase’s splendors.
Most lamentable indeed.

As I reached the conclusion, I expressed gratitude to Shuntei who had guided me and extended my thanks to the various individuals of Sannohe and Kamikita districts who had bestowed manifold kindnesses upon me.

(Meiji 42)