Pathway to Japanese Literature

Kiso-Komagatake

Those who read Mr. Shiga Shigetaka’s *The Theory of Japanese Landscapes* (Third Edition) will likely recall an appendix titled “On Cultivating the Spirit of Mountaineering” appended to the end of its chapter on Japan’s abundance of volcanic rocks.

The seventh section, titled “Central Japan’s Granite,” describes how massive granite formations extend westward from Mount Fuji’s volcanic belt to dominate central Japan, asserting that “the entirety of what we call the Kiso region consists of granite, whose solemn and majestic scenery truly originates from this rock.”

It declares that among Central Japan’s granite formations, “those most worthy of ascension” are Mount Yarigatake (3,531m) and Mount Komagatake (2,557m), further noting that “gneiss extends along the eastern margins of Central Japan’s great granite masses.”

Upon entering Kai Province, one finds two granite masses: the Komagatake Massif to the west and the Kinpusan Massif to the east. Though their sprawling areas remain modest, these compact formations host numerous towering peaks of unparalleled peculiarity.

“Why not attempt their ascent?” it challenges, enumerating five peaks: Kuragatake Mountain (1,483m), Mount Komagatake (3,002m), Mount Hōōzan (2,912m), Mount Jizōgatake (2,797m), and Mount Kinpusan (2,551m).

Having read this account and grown utterly enraptured—dismissing Kuragatake Mountain—I found myself restlessly yearning to scale all six remaining peaks, for they represented Japan’s quintessential granite mountains towering between 2,500 and 3,000 meters. When opportunity finally arrived, I eagerly commenced my journey in July of Meiji 29 (1896).

Though the primary aim of this journey was to climb granite mountains, having first ascended Tateyama of Hisakoi and subsequently attempted second ascents of Mount Norikura and Ontake, I found myself constrained by time, weather, and above all a lack of preparatory knowledge—factors that led me to fail in scaling the three peaks of Yarigatake, Jizō, and Hōō. Yet having managed to achieve my objectives with both Komagatake peaks and Mount Kinpusan just as I had envisioned, I felt quite satisfied.
I had mistakenly written and spoken of this mountain journey as occurring in Meiji 28—a complete error of memory—but upon recently discovering, among a bundle of old discarded magazines, one that fortunately contained my Komagatake travelogue, it became clear that the actual year was Meiji 29.
At that time, I devoted myself solely to walking and kept no records; even simple journey diaries had already been scattered and lost. Thus daunted by the fear that similar errors of memory might lurk elsewhere, I hesitate to take up the brush of recollection—yet I beg temporary forgiveness for any omissions.

This old travelogue of Mount Komagatake is an extremely concise account imitating a classical Chinese style. Yet even now, when I read it, I find it frequently aids in recalling forgotten passages; thinking that building upon this foundation to add recollections might prove diverting, I have decided to quote it here.

From central Shinano southward lies a massive granite mountain range coiling between the Kiso and Tenryū Rivers—its highest peak known as Mount Komagatake, standing at 8,600 shaku. Unlike volcanoes with their sprawling foothills, it surges vertically from the earth, piercing the heavens with jagged crags where no blade of grass grows green. Yet this stands no bleak wasteland scraping empty skies: verdant forests cloaked its summit, layering emerald upon violet hues that mirrored the granite’s snowy purity—a beauty so vivid it seemed scrubbed clean, its lush peaks straining to take flight. Should we take Mount Fuji’s elegant cone as the standard for noble mountains and deem volcanoes the “true” form, then granite peaks like these must stand as nature’s marvels—the strange made sublime. Consider how ancient volcanoes had crumbled into moss-covered mounds beneath earthen blankets, while these sheer cliffs—as at Myōgi or Togakushi—stood defiantly upright even now: anomalies among anomalies, wonders within wonders.

Mount Komagatake reigned as the pinnacle of marvels—its undulating grandeur and majestic vistas truly defying all expectation. Those accustomed only to volcanoes with sprawling foothills found themselves suddenly confronted by this peerless beauty; how could they not extol it with utmost fervor?

I had used far too many complex characters with excessive strokes; a friend pursuing Chinese literature even scolded me, demanding why I hadn’t simply written in classical Chinese. Combined with my immersion in reading the *Wen Xuan* and youthful pretentiousness that made me feel my sentiments couldn’t be laid bare without liberally using characters bearing mountain and stone radicals, this writing style had come to be. Of course, it goes without saying that I received significant influence from *The Theory of Japanese Landscapes* itself. The elevation of 8,600 shaku—driven by partiality to portray the mountain as taller—was adopted not from *The Theory*, but from a Central Geological Survey map I had glimpsed elsewhere, where contour lines seemed to mark 2,600 meters. Though I appear to have deferred to this figure, I retain no clear memory of doing so. I need not have written such vague statements as "having attained a splendid appearance through weathering and erosion," but I ask that this too be seen as the work of a brush driven by ignorance of volcanoes.

Such was the mountain's extraordinary formation—cliffs towered everywhere, carved sheer as if encircling the peaks like a thousand-ren folding screen. From ridges emerged white clouds that swayed low against precipices, resembling celestial ladders hung by immortals. To this added countless streams gushing through lush vegetation: they cascaded down steep slopes with murmuring urgency, each becoming a waterfall where meeting jutting crags—now unraveled silk threads, now unblemished satin—plunging layer upon layer for tens of jō before coalescing into an indigo-dyed torrent. This swift current twisted through granite boulders shattered into near-ovals until finally merging with the Kiso and Tenryū Rivers. How coldly pure its waters! How snow-white its stones! Here did mountain and stream attain perfection in beauty.

This resembles a conceptual description that anyone with modest mountaineering experience might draft on paper while consulting a map—the sort one could produce after reading classical Chinese travelogues and attempting to emulate their style. To be sure, even as I mentally reconstructed such awe-inspiring vistas—the terrifying ridges forming Namekawa River’s left bank viewed from Tōmiba, the main range’s eastern flank seen beyond Senjōjiki from Ina no Maedake, and Kurokawa’s upper rock walls—scenes sufficiently startling to the eye—I had merely extrapolated the rest from these fragments. By afternoon, clouds had scattered away. What I imagined as waterfalls might well have been white scree filling valley-like hollows in several instances.

Having already climbed Ontake to explore its summit's wonders and observed Hell Valley's fumes, I descended the Nakasendō highway to lodge that night in Nezame Village. When dawn broke on August 15th, resolved to ascend Mount Komagatake, I followed a mountain stream upward for half a *ri* until beholding the Waterfall of Reverence. Pressing onward another two *ri*, pushing through dwarf bamboo and treading over stunted trees, I found deadwood coiled like dragons across the path—soil soft with damp moss, ancient cypresses interlacing branches to form towering pillars. Though midday sun lingered, cold winds hissed up from the valley, scattering white dew upon my collar. Far removed from the mundane world, autumn's whispers already haunted these depths: bush clover and bellflowers bloomed unnamed among rocks, their delicate charm undeniable. Yet birdsong grew sparse in the mountain's heart, clarity piercing bone-deep—a wordless dread quickened my steps where no soul passed but woodcutters. Mosses slick as clay sent me sprawling time and again until, beyond a tilting boulder where the trail thinned to thread, I reached Kanegake hut.

Descending from Ontake’s summit via Kurosawa-guchi, I arrived in Fukushima at 2:30 p.m.
The sun was still high, and since staying in Kamimatsu would be more convenient for climbing Mount Komagatake, I followed the riverside path southward.
The area known as the remains of an old pier made for a rather fine view—there the Kiso River narrowed between rocky cliffs, its churning rapids surging close beneath my feet.
When I inquired in Kamimatsu and learned there was also a route ascending Mount Komagatake from Nezame, I seized this opportunity and resolved to proceed there. At the town’s outskirts, on the left side, stood stone steps with a marker stone inscribed “Mount Komagatake Climbing Route: Four ri and Twenty chō from This Point.” I surmised this must be the path leading to the village shrine at the first station.
Before long, I arrived in Nezame, entrusted my luggage to a place called Echizenya, and toured Nezame no Toko—the namesake bedrock formation.
My expectations had been too high, so I found myself involuntarily muttering that while this place was smaller in scale, the rocks at Ichinoseki’s Genbikei Gorge were rather superior—a slight venting of misplaced frustration.
In front of Rinsen-ji Temple stood a hall called Urashima-dō, where items claimed to be relics of Urashima Tarō were preserved, including what appeared to be a fishing rod—a Hotei bamboo measuring over two ken (about 3.6 meters) in length.

When I returned to Echizenya, I was shown to a room—and before I could even sit down, the maid asked:

“Traveler, will you be lodging with soba or with a meal?”

When questioned, I couldn’t comprehend her meaning at all and stumbled over my reply.
Upon asking for clarification, I learned this house specialty was “longevity soba” tied to the Urashima Tarō legend.
Being naturally fond of it, I quickly settled on staying with the soba option.

When I looked around the guest room, five or six bamboo stalks tied to the alcove pillar had Tanabata-colored paper strips hanging from them, seemingly written by a child. Tomorrow would be Tanabata by the old calendar. The characters written on those colored papers were largely names of military commanders like Kiso Yoshinaka, Minamoto no Yoshitsune, and Kusunoki Masashige—but just when I thought I’d finally spotted one reading “Milky Way,” there followed instead names of rivers like the Kiso and Yoshino. Even Lady Tanabata would be astonished by this. What I had seen in Kamimatsu was much the same—here in Kiso, renowned for Yoshinaka, and given the customs of that time, I thought it a rather lackluster Tanabata festival.

When I got out of the bath, soba was served.
When I looked, I was astonished—bamboo baskets piled as high as a person’s height; there must have been at least ten of them.
It seemed they served such portions precisely because there existed those who could devour every last morsel.
I had so much that I thought they’d brought even the morning’s portion along—yet despite my best efforts, I couldn’t finish it all and ended up leaving about four portions uneaten.
The next morning, I had them prepare rice for me, but separately, four soba baskets were properly added.

Before long, a massage therapist arrived—having no need for his services, I declined.
Next came a young girl selling flower preserves.
Peering inside, I saw square and round bentwood containers with a base layer resembling Kinzanji miso, upon which were arranged red and white flowers—plum blossoms, peach blossoms, and Japanese plums—some in bud, others fully open. Their placement shifted with each vessel’s shape: some fanned out in semicircles like hand-held fans, others forming diamond patterns or floral motifs.
The blossoms’ colors remained startlingly vivid—indistinguishable from living flowers.
I initially assumed one steeped them in hot water like salted cherry blossoms for consumption but later discovered they served purely decorative purposes.
Their beauty proved irresistible; though aware these fragile boxes would burden my long journey ahead, I purchased five exactly as pressed upon me.
Such peddling of local wares to lodgers carried nothing unusual in those former days.

In the carefree ease of solitary travel, morning departures tend to be delayed. When I reached the southern edge of Nezame Village, there stood a signpost as instructed, inscribed with “Mount Komagatake Climbing Trail.” Following a small path eastward, I emerged at the banks of the Namekawa River and proceeded upstream along its riverbed for nearly half a *ri*—though whether it was the left or right bank, I cannot recall. I also saw waterfalls. In my travelogue, I clearly wrote of that as the Waterfall of Reverence, yet even now I remain uncertain.

I had not noticed merging with the ascent route from Kamimatsu; after tracing the valley awhile, the path veered sharply left into a steep climb and was soon engulfed in a great hinoki forest where even midday light grew dim. Though called a road, it was nothing more than a single narrow path. The path was sometimes overgrown with shrubs and dwarf bamboo, other times had tree roots and rocky outcrops forming crude steps, at times fallen trees lay across it, and massive boulders towered before me—all of which made proceeding alone quite daunting. In this forest as well, golden-striped rodents were exceedingly numerous, their bodies marked with yellow vertical stripes and long, bushy tails carried squirrel-like on their backs as they leapt from tree to tree. Even when seeing people, they showed little sign of alarm, at times approaching to within four or five shaku of distance. Though they appeared slow, they were in fact remarkably agile; I gave chase relentlessly, but of course there was no hope of catching them. I recall that among the hinoki cypresses, there were also scattered momi firs and buna beeches. Kanegake Hut lies approximately two ri from Kamimatsu, precisely at the fifth station. Bush clover, bellflowers, patrinia—there was no way such flowers could exist at this altitude. In my desperation—having racked my brain to recall any familiar flowers but failing—I transplanted those from the foothills with the tip of my brush.

Here, with a valley spread before me and a rugged peak at my back, firs and cypresses densely intertwined in the depths, the dew beneath the trees chill—I stepped directly inside to call for the hut owner, then sat hugging my knees as we conversed.
The hut owner drew spring water into a stone cauldron to boil tea and prepared mushrooms into a broth to serve with rice; fragrant, crisp, and exquisite—before I knew it, I had drained several cups. After resting briefly, I resumed climbing.
Rock fragments perilously stacked, tree roots sinuously coiled—as I painstakingly ascended, granite monoliths alternately thrust skyward like sheer cliffs crowned with soil where young firs adorned emerald-hued slopes, or rose in stratified blades as aged trees clawed from stone fissures, their roots gaunt and trunks contorted until unable to stand upright, instead crawling along rock faces to prop up boulders. Amid this realm lingered mountain lilies whiter than snow, dewdrop-laden blooms that seemed celestial maidens frozen mid-laughter. Borne aloft by white clouds, I climbed gradually until alpine winds whipped my robes, infusing me with unearthly fragrances—a purity beyond mortal realms. Now I believed those who claimed mountain flora thrives rugged and unrefined; though I had sought Myōgi’s wonders thrice over, marveling at its grandeur and shifting vistas, only here did I realize Mount Komagatake stands without peer.

From the hut, descending the slope to the left for two or three hundred meters at a place where an especially large grove of trees thickly clustered together, clear water welled up from between the rocks.
He drew it and brought it back to pool in a large bowl-shaped rock outside the hut.
Hence its witty designation as a stone cauldron.
Not knowing what the white flowers were called—here too in my haste I transplanted mountain lilies.
Imitating classical Chinese diction truly reveals one's worst tendencies.
If only now I could avoid laboriously writing lies—I thought—unable to suppress a wry smile when looking back on those days.
However, mountain lilies were actually blooming before the hut; when I asked about this unusual sight in mid-August, I learned they had been planted from bulbs brought up from below.

After nearly an hour of conversation, just as I rose to depart, there entered from the upper direction—with a gruff apology—a giant monk of forty-five or forty-six years: his forehead wrapped in white cloth, standing nearly six feet tall. He wore mouse-colored traveling robes with arm guards and greaves that could pass for armored sleeves and leggings, a sash of walnut-sized crystal prayer beads across his chest, an iron-headed staff gripped in hand, and a heavy-looking pilgrim's pack strapped to his back.

Whether he was a wandering monk or a Shugendō practitioner I couldn’t tell, but his imposing figure—the kind that made one imagine this must be what the legendary Musashibō Benkei was like—left even the hut owner visibly startled, while I watched fearfully from a corner.

Then, while sipping the bitter tea drawn by the hut owner, he called out to me and asked whether I was ascending or descending; I replied that I was ascending.

“I’m impressed you’re so young.”

“There’s a collapse ahead near the summit—be careful where the path gives out there,” he cautioned.

Reassured by his unexpected kindness despite his imposing appearance, I ventured to inquire about his background—apologies for my forwardness.

Chuckling “Hah, me?” he proceeded to explain in considerable detail—but having failed to record it at the time, I have now nearly forgotten everything, a loss I deeply regret when reflecting upon it.

He was apparently from Kasugai District in Owari Province, having begun pilgrimages to shrines and temples across Japan some ten years prior—this being his third such journey now underway. At each shrine and temple he visited, he made sure to have a seal stamped. Those who climbed mountains would press summit seals, he explained, though many peaks lacked such provisions. That even this Mount Komagatake had none struck him as most inconvenient.

His pilgrim’s pack contained seal-stamp albums and cooking gear for bivouacking, he said, always carrying one shō of rice. I asked to examine the albums. The paper—whether hōsho or torinoko, I couldn’t tell—was of fine quality with brocade bindings, each volume nearly two inches thick, ten in total. Opening them revealed temples I scarcely recognized, but among mountain entries stood Osorezan, Iwaki, Chōkai, Gassan, and other Ōu peaks unknown to me—names from Hokuetsu to Kantō arrayed in rows beneath large seals.

I remember feeling envy verging on jealousy as I looked through them. When he mentioned keeping thirty more such volumes at home, I was utterly dumbstruck. The pack itself weighed nine kanme (about 33.75 kilograms), he claimed. Gazing at my own meager two kanme of gear left me oddly abashed.

Considering Kasugai District’s history—birthplace of Kakumei the Ascetic who restored Mount Ontake’s Kurozawa route in Tenmei 5 [1785], heartland of Ontake pilgrimage groups—one readily understands why such extraordinary individuals might emerge from there.

Thus I crossed trackless crags and ascended through ancient thickets of gnarled shrubs for over one *ri*, until the forest finally gave way. Before me rose a sheer peak of granite—so white it could be mistaken for snow—as though built by divine hands. Across its midsection cascaded dozens of mountain streams through green-branched trees, like sinuous white dragons coiling through the valleys. Swarms of rock swallows swirled as indistinctly as autumn leaves in the void. Below lay the thousand-fathom valley depths, shrouded in gloom; above stretched the ten-thousand-*zhang* azure heights, where a hazy, moist energy seemed to surge skyward while solitary alpine winds stirred. Suddenly the mountain’s form narrowed abruptly—twin cliffs grazing my face, their destination unknown. Finding purchase on the uneven rock veins, I climbed until perilous stones formed precarious bridges over chasms where no foothold existed, peering down at treetops far below. Clutching rocks with both hands, I crawled across trembling limbs until—haltingly—I managed to traverse it. Never had I witnessed such treacherous mountain paths. Though descending Mount Ontake’s Third Crater once meant navigating sheer vermilion cliffs where crumbling stones fell with climbers—a perilous endeavor—compared to this, it seemed as distant as heaven from earth. Even now, recalling it sends cold sweat trickling down my back.

I left the hut around two in the afternoon. From this point upward, massive granite blocks stood crisscrossed in every direction, all trees growing twisted and gnarled to present the quintessential appearance of a high mountain. When I climbed to Tōmiba, the forest ended abruptly and the view opened up all at once, revealing Mount Komagatake's slopes from the eighth station upward—the entire mountain blanketed in snow-like granite sand. Particularly, the ridge connecting San-no-sawa-dake to Hōken-dake left me gaping in astonishment. At the time, unaware of San-no-sawa-dake's name, I had referred to the immediately adjacent peak as Mae-dake—a designation requiring correction to Hōken-dake on the left and San-no-sawa-dake on the right for accuracy. Ptarmigans were remarkably abundant. The following day I effortlessly caught two at the summit and brought their wings back as souvenirs. This was because I recalled how even two or three tail feathers collected at Mount Ontake were prized treasures—it being said that using ptarmigan feathers in silkworm-rearing brooms ensured healthy cocoons. Exhausted by steep climbs along the route, I would occasionally pause to catch my breath—only to look up and find bronze statues wielding swords standing on rocks right before my eyes, startling me out of my wits once or twice. At the collapsed section warned about by the Shugendō practitioner, no path could ultimately be found; with no alternative, I climbed Mae-dake along the ridge and crawled across a rock face resembling a horse's back. At that moment when I first saw two bears on a slope about two chō below to my left—how terrified I was!

Having grown utterly exhausted, I leaned against a rock intending to rest briefly, my mind blank and unaware of my own existence—when suddenly footsteps arose in the ravine and I heard something growling low. Suspiciously turning to look, I saw beneath a boulder overlooking the stream something blacker than ink revealing half its form some four hundred paces away; scrutinizing it closely, I realized it was a bear.

Startled beyond measure, I hastily concealed myself beneath a rock’s shadow and held my breath to observe it. After a time came another growl, and a great bear slowly pushed through the dense undergrowth to amble along the stream’s edge—yet it seemed already aware of my presence, scrutinizing me at length before finally disappearing into the shrubs. Then a ravine wind swept through the treetops, abruptly whipping my sleeves and raising goosebumps as sweat grew colder than ice; feeling as if haunted by demonic forces, my heart raced until I hurriedly rose and traced my way over jagged crags—climbing rightward through prostrate pines, veering left—for over twenty chō, until at last I reached Mae-dake’s summit. Turning to gaze back at the path below, I found my tracks already buried beneath white clouds, leaving me a solitary figure upon the mountain. Timeless winds streamed ceaselessly from the vaulted heavens while the westering sun bathed me in light, twilight’s glow across four jade-and-violet peaks growing fainter than moonlight.

That night, lodging at Tamakubo Hut nine *chō* below the summit, I met climbers from Kamimatsu who had come with the shrine priest to open Komagatake Shrine’s inner sanctum. As we drew sake and grilled mushrooms while conversing through the night, the seventh-night moon hung in the zenith from evening onward, its glistening light illuminating granite like snow. Clouds from Shirayama Valley filled the ravines, at times drifting right beneath our window—leaving me so enraptured I half-suspected myself a celestial from the Palace of Cold Vapors. Yet when monkey cries echoed through the treetops just outside, their voices struck me as profoundly mournful.

I likely arrived at Tamakubo Hut around five o'clock.
The hut stood shut tight, devoid of any human presence.
While I wandered about the area for a time, the hut owner returned from gathering medicinal herbs.
Before long, a priest accompanied by a young man ascended from Kamimatsu, and as sunset approached, twelve or thirteen people who appeared to be local members of an Ontake pilgrimage group arrived, causing the hut to bustle with activity.
The priest kindly shared vegetables—eggplants, cucumbers, and others—that he had brought up from below. I purchased sake at the hut and offered it before the shrine; once the norito prayers concluded, I removed the offering. Then the priest, the hut owner, and I retreated to a separate room where we poured each other sake and talked late into the night.
The seventh-night moon shone at the zenith while the world below lay submerged in an ocean of clouds.
The mountain night air felt pleasantly cool against my lightly flushed cheeks; were it not for the occasional sharp cries said to be monkeys piercing my ears, I might have fancied myself an immortal dwelling in the celestial realms.

At dawn I departed the hut, treading branch upon branch scattered across colossal boulders as I climbed by the whitening light. A hunting wind tore through clouds and mist, rendering even an arm’s length invisible—until at last reaching the summit, where gusts stilled and fog dissolved. The mountaintop dawn bathed the world as if scrubbed clean: granite peaks clustered below, glowing crimson in the rising sun—jagged spires carved by unseen hands, twisted crags coiled like serpents, cliffs sheer as blades with waterfalls cascading down. Creeping pines clung to every precipice while forests mantling the slopes pooled shadows like spilled ink—dense and sparse interwoven, dark and pale merging—until emerald skies brightened infinitely above valleys plunging into bottomless voids. Raising my gaze further revealed titanic ranges scraping heaven: nearby Ontake, Norikura, Shirouma-Akaishi; distant Fuji’s heights and Hakusan’s snows—all entering my vision at once. Their azure forms emerged like islands from surging dawn clouds encircling the foothills, vast as solitary landmasses adrift on a boundless sea. No words sufficed for such grandeur—a spectacle worthy of being called Japan’s supreme vista. Northeast of the summit lay Jade Pool, spanning ten chō around—a depression where rainwater collected, its hue resembling piled indigo with blue islets floating within and white sands gracing its shores. Yet this elegant mountain lake defied expectations of alpine austerity. To its south loomed Hōken-dake’s abrupt massif; scaling its rocky spine unveiled through parting clouds Tenryū River’s silver serpentine form racing southward.

The bright morning began with a rough start, but calm prevailed once the sun emerged.
I climbed to the summit with the priest, prostrated before the shrine, then leisurely immersed myself in the view.
The weather seemed poised to shift abruptly—high cirrus and cirrostratus clouds trailed faintly across the sky as they raced northeast at breakneck speed—yet all mountains visible from this vantage stood out clearly above the sea of clouds encircling every horizon.
Only Mount Norikura and Mount Yari remained shrouded in black clouds, their gloom suggesting rain might be falling there.
Here I parted ways with the priest, passed through Nakadake to reach Ina’s hut, left my luggage to visit Nōike, then retraced my steps and climbed Hōken-dake.
I stood astonished by the mountain’s terrifying steepness—even its narrow summit, as though built from stacked rocks, felt impossible to occupy without clinging to something for support.
Yet a small shrine still stood there enshrining Tazunaomikoto.
The shrine on Mae-dake held Yamato Takeru no Mikoto while Hon-dake housed Ukanomitama no Mikoto; though some deity had been enshrined at Ina’s Mae-dake too, I cannot now recall which.
Regarding my erroneous notation of Nōike as Tamagaike, I must direct readers to *Mountaineering Discourses*.
Had I simply written “a depression where water pooled,” it would have sufficed—yet I inexplicably used terms like “strata” and “subsidence,” words easily mistaken for geological jargon that still perplex me.
Though alpine plants likely bloomed near the pond, my utter lack of memory leaves me no choice but to lean on bush clovers and bellflowers for descriptive aid.

Since ancient times, those who climb mountains have invariably deemed sunrise a supreme marvel of the heights, ceaseless in their admiration. Whenever I read such accounts in my predecessors’ writings, I would always close the scroll and strive to envision the scene. Later, seizing opportunities to travel, I ascended renowned peaks across the land, lodging overnight upon their summits to witness sunrise in its essence—yet ultimately found nothing particularly wondrous. Even among Shinano and Kai’s many celebrated mountains—Japan’s foremost alpine giants—the so-called “golden threads in disarray” at dawn differed little from what one might observe on a coastal plain after rain had cleansed the skies. The true grandeur of mountaintops lies not in sunrise itself, but rather in nature’s vast spectacle unfolding before and after. What amplifies this spectacle into kaleidoscopic brilliance? None other than clouds—transformations of water vapor. Should one stand upon a high peak at dawn’s approach and gaze about, they would see the eastern sky gradually whitening as lingering stars fade away. The clinging night darkness sinks deeper while horizontal clouds shrouding nearby peaks grow faintly visible across boundless expanses—no shorelines discernible. When the sun finally rises above the horizon, clouds ignite into polychrome splendor, their surfaces etched with peaks—some solitary spires, others clustered crags—while countless villages below appear as faint specks in shadowy recesses. Turning to look back, one might find oneself already riding clouds like an immortal treading emptiness. Then morning breezes begin sweeping across faces, clouds drifting layer upon layer—now a uniform white expanse, now surging mountains and flowing rivers—countless visions defying comprehension. Does any mountain spectacle surpass this? Seas and lakes viewed from great heights show only monochrome stillness without variation—how could they merit praise as beautiful or marvelous? Here I finally understood: our ancestors’ adage “mountains without water lack vitality” applies solely when gazing upward from plains below—never when describing summit vistas from above. Mountains require water’s presence yet ultimately cannot exist without clouds.

Having unexpectedly witnessed a magnificent cloud sea and its endlessly shifting movements atop Mount Komagatake, I wrote this out of exasperation—for while sunrise has many admirers, none devote themselves to praising cloud seas.
When I examined *On the Beauty of Mountains and Waters*, authored by Kubo Tensui and published in Meiji 33 (1900), nearly the same observations were recorded.
He appeared to share my sentiments.

Thus roaming the expansive summit—contemplating nature’s grand spectacle, apprehending beauty between heaven and earth, communing with clear winds in silent meditation—the grandiose atmosphere accumulated within my breast until I drifted free of worldly awareness. Yet mortal frames cannot linger long in divine realms; hastening to find a path down to Miyada, I turned to gaze from Tenryū River’s banks and saw Hōken-dake’s spire emerge and vanish amid cloud-wreathed heights, as though bidding me farewell.

After descending Hōken-dake and resting briefly at Ina’s hut, I began my descent toward Miyada at 1:00 p.m., taking the path from Ina’s Mae-dake to Eboshi-yama.
Up to the eastern tip of Mae-dake, massive rocks stood imposingly with no significant elevation changes, but beyond that tip lay a steep slope plunging abruptly downward—and upon leaving the creeping pine belt, there stretched once more a great forest of black trees.
That path was likely marked on the Goman no Zu map.
On the way, I did not encounter a single person.
I arrived in Miyada around 4:30 p.m.; though quite tired from hurrying, for the convenience of climbing Kai-Komagatake, I walked an additional two ri and reached Inabe around six o’clock, where I stayed at a place called Yanagiya.

Kai-Koma

Following the Mitsumine River’s course, I turned south from Nishi-Takatō Town and passed through villages—Himochi, Mizoguchi, Kurokōchi—before veering eastward to ascend deep into Kurokawa Valley along ivy-clad paths. Gradually, the clamor of chickens and dogs faded away. Nestled within mountains clustered like storm-tossed waves lay Todai—a place of merely two households. Before them rushed Kurokawa’s rapids, spanned by a log bridge that connected to roads leading to the world beyond. Yet being far from any village, travelers naturally grew scarce. Mornings saw white clouds from the peaks—startling woodcutters with their sudden rustle—hang ethereally at eaves, while evenings brought breezes whispering through ancient pines’ boughs, akin to jade harps’ notes. Untouched by worldly clamor, even with its brushwood gate shut tight, Todai remained profoundly still.

Though these rustic souls knew not a whit of worldly graces—their fortitude and artless honesty akin to benevolence, as the ancients said—they evoked the visage of primordial folk: kneeling by hearths on bear pelts, their bearing near akin to bandits’. Yet their hearts brimmed with kindness, granting a night’s shelter to this stranger from afar with unfeigned warmth. To a traveler who disdained those common inns prostrating only before wealth, such sincerity became a thing of boundless nostalgia.

Having climbed Shinano’s Komagatake and descended to Miyada by the Tenryū River, I could scarcely weave even dreams of rest at Inabe’s lodging. At dawn, I hurried over ten *ri* through the rain until dusk found me deep in desolate mountains, prepared to spend a lonely night alone—pillowing my head on rock roots. Yet here, beyond expectation, lay shelter. The elderly woman tended and comforted me as though welcoming her first grandchild home from travels, while the children drew close affectionately from left and right like kin. Never have I forgotten how my traveler’s heart was soothed by such rare human warmth—this being August 17, when lodging here to ascend Kai-Komagatake.

At Nesame no Sato, I slept well without needing a mosquito net, the coolness suiting my body perfectly. But in Inabe, the sweltering heat and swarms of mosquitoes left even my weary form unable to weave pleasant dreams.

The following 17th day dawned cloudy, just as anticipated.
Yet for a traveler on foot, overcast skies brought comfort.
Though I inquired about Kai-Komagatake, not a soul possessed knowledge; all directed me to ask in Takatō.
Having crossed the Tenryū River and followed the Mitsumine River's course, I likely reached Takatō around nine in the morning.
At the town's entrance where roads converged, I spied a thickly wooded grove and imagined it might be the castle ruins—but such proved false.
To the left rose a high stone staircase; settling upon its steps to wipe my brow, I found rain beginning to fall before long.

The castle ruins lie southeast beyond the town, across the Fujisawa River on a slightly elevated spot—likely constructed with the Mitsumine and Fujisawa Rivers serving as natural strongholds on three sides.
It was unexpectedly smaller in scale than I had long imagined.
It was the final moments of castle commander Nishina Gorō Morinobu—who holed up in this small castle, harried Oda’s vast forces, and perished gloriously in battle—that captured my heart.
For it was a time when I burned with fervor—indignant at the many cowardly samurai who fled without adorning their noble house’s demise with dignity, kicking up sand in their retreat—so much so that I was actually resolved that if told to slice open my belly, I would do so immediately. Thus, having come this far, I took the chance to pay homage to Gorō’s heroic spirit.
At the castle ruins, there remained nothing that spoke of the past; beyond the earthen ramparts, most land had been cultivated, with soybeans and corn ripening in the fields.
Though the season when Jizi passed through Yin’s ruins had long since faded, and no summer grasses grew to evoke warriors’ vanished dreams, tears spilled unbidden as I dwelled on times past.
Even so, I did not forget to ask a farmer nearby about the path to Mount Komagatake.
However, the answer was simple: “Go to Kurokōchi and ask there.”
That was all there was to it.

Arriving in Kurokōchi through the rain, I grew concerned about finding an inn serving lunch among the farmhouse-like structures, yet there stood a house bearing an incongruous restaurant sign. Tentatively inquiring if meals were available and receiving affirmation, I promptly ordered. What arrived was a square wooden box of the sort used for pressed sushi, its lid tightly sealed.

When I opened the lid with suspicion, I found myself utterly astonished and delighted to discover matsutake rice within.

Though the proprietor was absent, my greater joy came from confirming a definite path to Mount Komagatake.

The housewife—tucking small branches beneath the iron kettle suspended from the hearth’s adjustable hook as she boiled water—kindly advised: “About two *ri* from here lies Todai, with only two houses. Have Komatsu Denya at one lodge you. Inquire thoroughly about the route before ascending—even alone, you’ll have nothing to fear.”

According to the 1:200,000 map I then carried, not only did the Kurokawa River not originate from Mount Komagatake, but a mountain range intervened; one must cross this range and descend into a valley before finally approaching the peak.

This geographical reality compelled me to verify the path at every settlement along my journey.

In retrospect, it seems laughable indeed.

Beyond Kurokawa village stretched pure mountain trails, with no dwellings until Todai. Having prepared thoroughly for rain, I departed around two o’clock that afternoon, braving the downpour to follow Kurokawa’s right bank until reaching Todai just before four.

In the travelogue of Takahashi Hakuzan, who climbed the mountain in Meiji 14 (1881), it states: "Todai: three households, twelve people." Yet I suspect one household had since been lost, leaving only two remaining. The house I had been directed to—as anyone would naturally assume to be the larger of the two—I approached as well: a sturdy wooden-shingled structure built at the base of a south-facing terrace slightly removed from the river. When I called out "Good day" from the entrance and stepped into the earthen-floored area, five or six rough-looking men sitting on the raised threshold discussing something all turned their eyes toward me at once, making me falter momentarily. Looking around, I saw a large hearth dug beside the threshold frame. Directly across it on a spread bear pelt sat a slightly portly man of about thirty-five or thirty-six years old, his knees drawn up in snow pants—this was the owner.

“Is this Mr. Komatsu Denya’s residence?”

“Here it is.”

The owner answered, looking perplexed.
When I explained my circumstances and asked to stay the night, he immediately agreed.

Having been shown to the inner room and settled into relaxation, an elderly woman of around seventy from this household brought tea and inquired why I had come alone to such a place, after which her detailed tales of bygone days continued in this vein for nearly an hour.
She explained that while this was usually a quiet place, logging operations in Kokurokawa Valley had brought contractors and work camp supervisors to lodge here, resulting in frequent comings and goings of laborers.
A sweet little girl and boy—likely her grandchildren—clung to me affectionately, and even after the elderly woman left, they remained by my side. I passed the remaining time by telling them fairy tales until the rain let up, then went outside to stroll along the riverbank while gauging the weather.
The mountains were still shrouded in clouds, but in the western sky—which seemed unlikely to clear anytime soon—the sunset clouds glowed beautifully.
I hadn’t noticed before, but beneath the entrance’s eaves was a shelf holding four or five *four-to* barrels where bees were kept—a novel sight to me.

After emerging from the bath and sitting on the veranda while conversing with the contractor, a laborer returning from the mountain presented three or four large matsutake mushrooms before him. As he accepted them, the contractor turned to me and asked, “Can you write, sir?”—having judged me to be an elementary schoolteacher. “I can manage letters well enough,” I replied. Upon this, he requested I transcribe ledger headings for him. With no grounds to refuse now, I wrote fifteen or sixteen volumes exactly as directed—cashbooks, item loan registers, settlement ledgers, this ledger and that ledger. Before I knew it, five or six laborers had gathered around me in a circle. Each time I finished a volume, the contractor praised me: “Only a proper scholar knows these characters! Well done!” Then—“Here’s your thanks”—he handed over the earlier matsutake mushrooms, adding, “Roast these tonight and have a drink,” before departing with the stack of ledgers under his arm. The elderly woman wrapped the matsutake mushrooms in damp paper and steam-roasted them in the ashes for me. To savor pure matsutake mushrooms, this is said to be the finest method. The innkeeper remarked that since these were early-season mushrooms, they could fetch two yen and fifty sen—yet I found myself impressed by the contractor’s largesse of spirit as he unhesitatingly tossed them over without a second thought.

The following morning, I departed early for Mount Komagatake.
Following the innkeeper’s directions along the riverbed, I pressed onward. A rocky stream churned white foam, its spray drenching my clothes, while dawn gales swept down from the peaks, rendering the mountain air ever colder.
After climbing this way for about two *ri*, I reached a place called Akagahara. Here, the slope gradually steepened, and a boulder-strewn riverbed of ocher-hued bedrock stretched layer upon layer like overlapping zigzags. Torrents gnawed at rocks as watercourses split into five and three, surging violently across stone walls—pooling in deep basins here, cascading as waterfalls there—now flinging snow-like spray, now plunging indigo depths, roaring onward in fearsome tumult. Both mountains drew ever closer, their cliffs towering higher still: ancient cypresses speared the heavens; old pines interlaced branches overhead. So deep was the valley that sunlight barely filtered through, leaving beard moss hanging long in the gloom. Mist blurred the air thick with drifting dew; crevices in the rock lay sealed tight—no path remained to climb.
Hiking up my robes, I forded the stream and crossed over fallen cliffside trees that had naturally formed makeshift bridges. After progressing some ten-*chō*, the mountain stream split left and right—the right branch descending along granite cliffs, its stones smoothed by swiftly flowing water.
To the left lay another branch some six or seven *chō* distant, where the valley terminated in a silken cascade—its height roughly five or six *jō*—whose single, plunging descent presented a magnificent spectacle.
Proceeding along the right branch for seven or eight *chō*, both banks rose as though carved away—cliffs brushing my eyebrows on either side, precipices looming overhead. Yet though I glanced left and right, no path could be found.
Returning, I entered the left stream, climbed the right bank’s rock wall, and barely emerged above the waterfall.
Looking up, I saw yet another massive waterfall upstream, its full form half-hidden by dense branches as though revealing but a fraction of its whole. By my estimate, it plunged at least fourteen or fifteen *jō*, its ocher walls appearing chiseled by some divine tool—impassable without wings. Only then did I realize my path had been mistaken.
Here, ancient tsuga and cypress trees grew thickly together, their old pines intertwining branches amidst them; moss-cloaked rocks glistened with dew as mist swirled through the cold mountain wind sweeping down my sleeves—pine needles raining more densely than any shower spilled over my shoulders, deepening autumn’s poignant beauty all the more.

The eighteenth dawned with morning skies of flawless clarity that yielded to a great storm by noon—weather remarkable in both aspects. When I went to the river to wash my face, the water volume had swelled markedly from yesterday’s rain yet showed no hint of turbidity. Though the summit of Mount Senjō—called the Forepeak in the Ina region—remained hidden, there in the depths beyond the river’s face where mountains overlapped mountains rose Kai-Komagatake with solemn grandeur: its slopes above the eighth station gleaming a snow-like white through the gaps, so pristine one might think fresh powder had fallen—what locals here call Shirakuzure, the White Collapse. The summit however stayed veiled in clouds; a moderately strong southerly wind seemed to blow, tearing cloud fragments northward to dissolve in the vivid blue sky, yet the mass clinging stubbornly to the peak’s brow never diminished. As sunrise neared, those clouds burned crimson, coldly tinting the river’s waters.

Twelve large rice balls—this was prepared considering the possibility that no one would be at the hut on Folding-screen Rock, enough for three meals.
Fifteen apples plucked from the tree growing in the yard—this stemmed from the elderly woman’s kindness, born of her worry that there would be no water on the mountain.
With preparations now complete, I tucked a single sheet of traditional Japanese paper bearing a rough sketch of the ascent route firmly into my pocket and left behind this dear house that remains unforgettable even now.
The elderly woman who had come out to the veranda to see me off kept repeating that I must be sure to send a postcard once I safely descended.
I answered that I would certainly send one, but ultimately failed to keep this promise—a matter I still deeply regret to this day.
To be sure, I had left a message with the survey hut laborers at the summit the following day—asking that if anyone descended to Todai, they should stop by—but given there was no reason to expect climbers heading down to Todai, I doubt this was ever carried out.
When I went a second time, unfortunately the elderly woman was not there, so there was no way to confirm.

I forded Kurokawa (Todai River) five or six times, sometimes to the right and sometimes to the left, then took a rest at the confluence of Yabusawa and Akagahara.
Yesterday’s rain had made me pass by Taka-iwa (Eagle Rock) at the roadside and Kasa-ishi (Umbrella Rock) on the opposite bank without noticing them; today I cannot recall whether I saw Shira-iwa (White Rock) or Mitsu-ishi (Three Rocks).
Hakusan’s travelogue states: “From Shira-iwa to Mitsu-ishi, over several hundred paces, the river disappears underground”—clearly indicating a complete subterranean flow. But during my time, far from being hidden water, a raging torrent sent waves churning.
Up to this point—having crossed Kitazawa Pass and entered Norogawa Valley where char fishing is practiced—a clear trail had been worn.
From Akagahara onward, the path lay completely ruined, with only scattered remnants of the old trail remaining here and there upon banks where no shifts in bedrock seemed likely.
Thus I proceeded through the river, splashing as I went.
Once when unable to pass through a pool beneath a waterfall, I tried crossing via a fallen log above it. As the decayed bark peeled away smoothly, I lost my footing and plunged into the depths with a splash, crawling back up thoroughly drenched.
By this time the sky had completely clouded over, and occasional mist began rolling in.

The waterfall in the left valley had been visible from afar through fresh foliage; its impression remains vividly etched.
According to the 1:50,000 map, however, it should not have been visible unless approached from the entrance.
Because I had thought I was walking straight ahead without realizing I had entered the left valley at some point, I suppose I still perceive the right valley as having converged from the side.
The vivid image of water smoothly cascading down a riverbed of white granite into the main stream with its ocher-hued rocks still rises clearly before my eyes; yet my overall memory of this area remains hazy. Though I had believed I proceeded straight ahead and ascended the waterfall’s left side, reading this old travelogue reveals that I first entered the right valley.
Proceeding up this valley would lead one to the area colloquially known as Rokuhōseki.
Yet whether because I could not manage the rock face from halfway up or not, I turned back and entered the left valley again—only to encounter a waterfall that left me trapped between advance and retreat.
However, the upper waterfall might not belong to the main stream; perhaps it was formed by what is usually a dry ravine swollen by the previous day’s rain.
The pines were likely larch or Japanese white pine.
If it were a Japanese white pine—being five-needled—the term “pine needles” would be somewhat unsuitable; this too stems from my stubborn attachment that couldn’t bear to discard those two characters.

Perched on the rocky summit, I rested my weary legs for a time.
The sky had imperceptibly clouded over, poised to unleash rain at any moment, when a mass of cumulus clouds—gradually welling up beyond the Forepeak’s summit to the south—spread left and right, each layer darkening more profoundly than the last. They morphed with arresting dynamism until, upon reaching mid-heaven, they seemed to defy the celestial winds sweeping downward: their course abruptly fractured, streaming northward in sudden vehemence. At first they wavered like hesitant tides, then advanced with autumnal deluge’s inexorable breadth—vast and torrential—bearing within them storms and thunderclaps that swelled beyond containment. The lower clouds, now tinged gray, first dissolved into rain, suspending a great crystalline curtain across the sky. Then the upper strata, steeped in blackness, erupted into turbulent roiling—some charging forward, others retreating, spiraling without cease—until at last their edges whitened and sagged low, coalescing at last into a solemn pillar of rain.
I stood gazing intently for a long while, then—unthinkingly—brandished my umbrella to cleave the heavens, shouting “Kaisai!” again and again. Before the echoes of my cries could fade, wind swooped down with a hiss, its chill biting through me. In an instant, rain fell in axle-thick torrents, its deluge drowning all sound save for moments when rumbling thunder rolled across the sky. Then came the gale—a roar rising from the valley depths fit to shake earth’s very axis—driving murky mists and black clouds before it. Ancient trees were uprooted and flung inverted into the air, their branches clashing like demonic chimes while leaves tore free in swarms of ten thousand locusts. From nowhere came a sound like forest spirits wailing.
The rain intensified further as dense fog filled the gorge, plunging all into darkness where even a foot ahead became indiscernible. Barely taking shelter beneath an overhang, I gazed upward by the flickering light of violet lightning—there to the right rose a sheer cliff thirty meters high, upon whose edge stood a solitary great tree piercing the sky. Now, as black clouds parted to reveal its form towering like a giant, peaks and layered ridges vanished utterly from knowing.
I felt anew nature’s overwhelming power—eyes closed, listening to the tempest’s fury raging at my ears—and recalled how the World-Honored One of old, unmoved by all obstacles of Mara Papiyas, sat firm upon the diamond seat beneath the Bodhi tree. His thoughts raced toward the far shore of tranquil light, reaching nirvana’s subtle path to become Buddha. My body seemed freed from all suffering; my soul enveloped in lingering violet clouds, welcoming eternal spring in Tusita Heaven’s outer court. In this rapture, I momentarily forgot my own being—yet ultimately remained no celestial immortal. My spirit failed to conquer flesh; awakening revealed five desires still binding me. My form persisted in this alley of six dusts, forever barred from unsurpassed enlightenment’s realm. Then let me instead climb these cloud-piercing crags! Let my spirit reign as sovereign awhile!

According to the *Japan Climate Table* published by the Central Meteorological Observatory in December of Taishō 13 [1924], the typhoon of that day recorded winds of 32.7 meters per second at Ajino in the southwestern part of Kojima Peninsula jutting into the Seto Inland Sea, and 36.9 meters per second at Okayama, located 25 kilometers to the north-northeast. As both locations marked their highest wind speeds up to Taishō 13, this was no minor typhoon.
The typhoon’s central path grazed near Matsuyama in Shikoku from the Hyūga-nada Sea, then exited into the Japan Sea north-northeast of Okayama.
The Kōshin region, distant from the typhoon’s center, likely received only its residual effects; yet winds on the mountains proved formidable indeed, with even Tokyo recording south-southeast gusts reaching 15.2 meters per second.
The lightning may have been what is called typhoon-related, but its developmental pattern closely resembled that of an ordinary thunderstorm.
Since I had been accustomed to the great thunderstorms of Nikko-Akagi since childhood and maintained an abiding interest in lightning, I did not find myself particularly startled.

I do not know whether I truly possess an anomalous constitution, having never been diagnosed by a specialist in such matters—yet I have often repeated this peculiar experience: while moving my body with moderate or slightly excessive exertion, while receiving constant strong stimuli from natural phenomena that affect the flesh profoundly yet not painfully, when concentrating my thoughts upon some act by a certain person that once greatly moved me, I gradually feel hot blood surging through my entire body. Parallel to this comes a growing sense of pleasure; simultaneously, I perceive my form becoming weightless—blood, flesh, and bones all dissolving into this exquisite sensation—until my whole being transforms into light, transparent gas, leaving behind nothing but rapturous bliss.
At such times, the protagonists of the contemplated actions are religious figures; among natural phenomena, heavy rain or snow; and for bodily movement, walking—that is to say, braving heavy rain or snow while walking and contemplating the faith-filled words and deeds of religious figures constitutes the optimal conditions for reaching this state of ecstasy.
However, it is not always necessary for all conditions to be met; for example, there are times when merely sitting upright in a tatami room and swaying one’s upper body from side to side suffices.
The duration might last no more than twenty or thirty minutes, yet at times it could extend beyond two hours.
I shall refrain from pursuing a more verbose account here, lest I risk burdening you, dear readers—it suffices that you know this account to be factual.
At this time, I seem to recall that the cause was my suddenly remembering the beautiful passages from the *Butsu Hongyōkyō* and *Shogyōsankyō*.

In mountaineering, the ideal conditions for this self-induced ecstasy often come together on their own.
Hence, there is a risk of disaster; I strive to avoid it, but when alone, I can easily become ensnared.
I remained conscious of turning where the path should bend and crossing where bridges ought to be spanned—but as for where those bends might lead, that now lay beyond my awareness.

When I think of shouting "Kaisai!", what comes to mind is our intercollegiate boat race practices—though written accounts may claim everyone shouted it enthusiastically, what was it truly like?
We had resolved that henceforth, whenever we felt exhilarated, we would literally shout *Kaisai* three times—and this we had put into practice.
That custom seems to have been enacted here as well.
*Kaisai!*
Though this now strikes me as somewhat doubtful.

Having waited thus for who knows how long—as wind and rain at last abated—I descended again to where the two streams converged. There stood a colossal boulder nearby, its shape faintly resembling a toad; surely this was the Hiki-iwa (Toad Rock) the master had described that very morning. Searching its perimeter, I indeed found a thread-like path—yet so overgrown with brambles and buried under thick layers of dead leaves that distinguishing it proved no easy task.

From here, tracing the serpentine path and climbing unsteadily among twisted old trees, the gloom’s chill pierced my skin with dread; though heaven-scraping crags and vistas swelled to grandeur, their sublime aura pressing upon my very being, clouds hung thick and rain fell incessantly—the mountain’s majestic form remained beyond sight at last.

The greatest joy of mountaineering lies, of course, in standing upon the ultimate peak of one’s sought-after mountain and surveying the eight wildernesses—this goes without saying. Yet when one emerges from a forest belt so dense with branches that even midday remains dim, when one’s spirit first swells with boldness and parts the curtain of wind and clouds to gaze upward at the sacred peak—its delicate countenance standing fair before me, withholding its divine visage from ordinary wanderers out of guarded reverence—the sensation is such that even if a heavenly maiden were to beckon me with a smile from beneath flowering boughs in Genpu Rōen (Jade Garden of Immortals), it could not surpass this moment. Joy and nostalgia intertwine; though no form meets my eyes nor voice my ears, it feels as though hands wave and calls resound. My spirit soars, my soul takes flight; the blood coursing through me surges unbidden. Feelings of reverence and yearning well up irrepressibly within my breast—a phenomenon no climber who has once scaled these heights could ever wish to forget, even if they tried.

Long ago, gazing southeast from Wada Pass’s summit toward Mount Komagatake’s form towering at the cloudline, I could not contain my spiritual yearning—secretly resolving to ascend it another day, trusting earthly spirits would answer. Now that I tread this soil and scale its crags myself, my regret at being denied even an arm’s-length glimpse of its crystalline visage by the storm’s fury—could it compare to Yokobue’s legendary sorrow when she sought her lover in Sagano’s depths yet failed to meet him?

Descending the waterfall proved more difficult than ascending, as the rocks had become slick with moisture.
When I took out the sketch from my pocket and looked, Hiki-iwa was marked near the confluence; proceeding with careful search, I soon found it.
I believe it lay closer to the waterfall than the confluence—a large ocher-colored rock whose towering form facing the river resembled a crouching *hiki* toad, from which it likely derived its name; it is also called Gama-iwa, I hear.
The master had warned me to take care not to miss it, but as I walked with my gaze fixed downward, I must have passed by without noticing.

Pushing through the thicket on my right and treading over damp fallen leaves, I climbed twenty or thirty ken to find a rocky narrow path twisting and turning ahead.
It became clear that this was now a path with no semblance of a trail left to follow.
After proceeding five or six chō and veering slightly leftward, at the sudden end stood a stone pillar about two shaku tall inscribed with “Gojō Falls,” and below it near that spot, a waterfall could be seen—likely the very one I had climbed beside, I thought.
From there, the path turned sharply right into a steep ascent; treading over gnarled tree roots and weaving right and left between massive tilted boulders, it much resembled the climb up Kiso-Koma.
In these woods too were many striped squirrels that, undeterred by the storm, would dart out from beneath rocks or dash down from tree hollows at the slightest hint of my approach, startling me—who climbed single-mindedly without so much as a glance aside—countless times.
Even when I emerged into the dwarf pine zone I had so anticipated, it was truly regrettable that I could not behold the kind of vista I had seen when gazing up at Kiso-Koma’s summit from the vantage point.

Along this climbing route lie areas where Paleozoic strata contact granite and are exposed at the surface.
The northern shoulder of Komatsu-dake shares this trait: here, much like at Kiretto-dake, ochre rocks of a striking hue suddenly transition to pure white stone—a transformation particularly eye-catching. Yet at this time, due to the wind and rain, I passed through without noticing it at all, only realizing the rock’s altered color upon emerging into the dwarf pine zone.
On the way from the highest peak of Chichibu’s Matanizawa to Sanpōzan, there exists a similar location.

After a brief rest, I climbed on.
The path turned right and headed southeast; the peaks gradually narrowed into sheer cliffs on both sides as if carved by blades. Their faces were piled with white sand like snow—stepping onto it sent cascades of grit sliding downward with the climber. Even when one recoiled in alarm and sought refuge in the rocks, they too crumbled away, sending all plummeting straight down with a crash into the ravine below.
With no trees to obstruct it, the wind’s fury grew unchecked, threatening to sweep my legs from under me and hurl me into the thousand-fathom chasm below. Then came the deluge—torrents of rain slanted downward like white-feathered arrows loosed into the sky, as though the Four Heavenly Kings themselves rode the clouds, driving mountain demons and tree spirits before their wrath.
Foremost among these forces was a savage gale that swept across the mountain range’s summits—blowing in from the distant southern skies with a brine-laden ferocity. It struck the ridgeline with such violence that it scoured the peaks bare, only for valley winds to rise in answer from the depths below. These clashed with the clouds in a whirling tumult, as though the very sea raged in madness: one moment shattering into frothing spray like storm waves against cliffs, the next scattering into vast expanses where gossamer threads of mist tangled wildly across the void. Some clouds raced ahead while others stampeded blindly; those above gradually thinned and dispersed, yet those below redoubled their fury, swirling upward in chaotic eddies until—colliding and grinding against one another—they surged past the summit where I stood. A crosswind then swept sideways through them, shearing cloud masses in half to send fragments tumbling into the valleys below. As the gale’s roar at last subsided, I heard beneath my feet the sudden roar of rain—a deluge like waterfalls cascading down sheer cliffs.
The storm had somewhat abated when I observed tattered fragments of broken clouds—spread like a roc’s wings—flying overhead; distant thunder rumbled faintly, damp clouds abruptly parted, and to the south, about a ri away, I discerned a swell of uncanny deep-indigo clouds broodingly obscuring the sky.
The highest peak of the Shirakane Range, Kitadake, was already shrouded in clouds, while Mae-dake teetered on the brink of vanishing—a fierce wind must have arisen, for around the summit, clouds churned tumultuously, rendering the scene extraordinary.
Just then, a flock of swifts appeared, singing in harmony as they soared high into the midheavens, then vanished in an instant with the wind.
In moments, clouds once more surged mightily; the frigid air striking my face raised gooseflesh on my skin as a susurration filled the surroundings—as if monstrous beings were rampaging—until each moment grew darker than the last and all vision drowned in gloom, wind and rain poised to assail anew. This spectacle lay utterly beyond my clumsy brush’s power to convey.
In the face of nature’s solemn might, what puny human could remain unflinching and unawed?
Yet in the end, nature is a loving mother; the heart that grieves finite life and yearns for boundless eternity would soon merge with her essence.
Thus thinking, I moved my steps with serene composure toward the summit of the lofty peak.

Having been told by the master that once I reached Tori Gongen, I need only follow the ridge to the right to reach the summit without fail, I began scanning my surroundings attentively from the point where the narrow rock ridge curved rightward—but the fog rendered everything invisible.
Perhaps reassured that I had indeed reached Tori Gongen, I suddenly became aware of my hunger; taking shelter from the wind and rain in the lee of a large boulder on a relatively flat section, I retrieved my rice balls.
Today was truly a day where hunger gnawed at my belly. Even as I walked along the path, I ate. Upon checking, only four rice balls and five apples remained. Though anxiety about tomorrow weighed on my mind, I could not overcome my immediate hunger—I devoured another rice ball and two apples.
I think it was likely thanks to this voracious appetite and my abundant provisions that I managed to maintain my vigor and endure the wind and rain without faltering.

●Mount Hōō and Mount Fuji as Seen from the Seven-Jō Hut (Kai-Komagatake)

The ascent from Tori Gongen was grueling. Particularly troublesome were the massive rocks jutting up along the bare, gritty, sand-covered steep narrow ridge—utterly devoid of trees. If one carelessly veered sideways, there was risk of losing the path; moreover, with no visibility ahead to discern what dangers might lie in wait, I climbed over each boulder one by one. The surfaces of these rocks were often crumbling from weathering; each time I gripped them, they fractured brittlely, sending my body sliding downward—how many times my heart froze in terror, I cannot say.

Perhaps because it was a south wind, though my clothes had remained perpetually damp ever since falling into the waterfall basin and being soaked through, wearing nothing but a single shirt layer left me feeling no particular cold.
In the forest I had somehow managed an umbrella, but once on the ridge—far from using it—even when I wrapped a straw mat around myself and fastened it with a cord in lieu of a sash, the wind would billow beneath it and threaten to lift me aloft. Thus I bundled the umbrella within the mat and secured it at my waist, keeping both hands perpetually free for use.

Amidst the intermittent winds bearing rain, a ferocious gust blew—so violent it seemed an entity apart.
This wind was lukewarm and carried a briny odor, giving the sensation of being choked by hot spring steam.
The wind howled as it scoured the ridgeline’s crest, whereupon thick cloud masses gushed upward like a geyser from the leeward valley below—thus began the clash between wind and cloud. With each swirling gust, phantasmal clouds took shape in the void, apparitions materializing from thin air only to dissolve and reemerge. These were scattered sideways by the gale’s fury, momentarily resembling a sunlit morning’s sea of clouds—yet even as this illusion formed, fresh vapors surged anew from its depths.
And when the wind’s force waned slightly, the ferocious sound of rain rose from the base of the valley.
During this time, moving was perilous; there was no path forward save clinging to the rock with both hands and lying prone.
What proved more terrifying still was when—the moment the thick fog momentarily parted—I was assailed in the next instant by black clouds resembling a densely massed battalion of thunderclouds. Buffeted by a cold, piercing wind and pummeled by ice-like rain, my hands grew numb, the roots of my ears ached; clinging to the ground, my heart raced with anxiety over what might happen next.
This was likely what one might call a swift assault; though it felt interminable, the actual time elapsed could not have exceeded thirty or forty minutes.
Whether these swifts were genuine or mere phantoms remains unclear; I merely recorded them as observed through curtains of rain.

Treading upon white sand like scattered deutzia petals, I climbed twenty-odd chō along the precipitous ridge—repeatedly confronting massive boulders thrusting upward from the path. Clutching handholds and planting my feet, I scaled the weathered granite slopes only to have rock edges crumble beneath me time after time. Having finally overcome these obstacles, the path abruptly leveled into a gentler stretch where dwarf pines grew thickly; among them lay exotic grasses and peculiar flowers left ravaged by the storm's fury.

Advancing another two chō and climbing the steep slope, I at last reached the base of the triangulation survey tower. Beside it rose a massive conical granite formation—the absolute summit of Mount Komagatake, its elevation nearly ten thousand shaku. Beyond the Shirakane Mountain Range's peaks exceeding ten thousand shaku, no other mountain in the entire range could rival its height—how much less could any compare to this triumph: that I had safely attained its apex while braving thunderous skies and storm winds lashing torrential rain? Such an expedition could never be repeated; recalling this moment fills my spirit with millennial vigor.

This travelogue ended here in its unfinished state; what had begun as a continuation of the previous *Record of Komagatake* intended for serialization in a magazine seemed to have been halted due to certain circumstances—it was only natural that there were not a few sections requiring revision.

I reached the summit around four o'clock.
Normally a two-hour climb from Tori Gongen, it took nearly twice as long.
The survey tower stood in the fog, its four pillars scattered and swaying in the wind.
When I turned left, something resembling a hut came into view. Approaching with suspicion, I found it was indeed a hut—stones piled about four shaku high enclosed three sides, with the eastern side serving as an entrance—though of course, the door was shut.
At the door platform, there was no conversation, but the surveyors must have been staying here.
Having steeled myself for a night in the open, I suddenly felt a pang of warmth and lightly knocked on the door,

“Is anyone there? I’m terribly sorry—might I trouble you for shelter tonight? I have my own provisions.”

I called out; then came a voice hoarsened by wind:

“No! No lodging here! Descend one-and-a-half ri—there’s a hut! Another fellow just went down too! Hurry and catch up!”

The refusal carried an edge of irritation.
Whenever climbing mountains, I resolved always to bivouac at summits and savor dawn panoramas unbridled—thus I murmured vague assent—“Ah... Very well...”—and was weighing whether to bed down beneath this hut’s lee when a straw-cloaked man emerged from within bearing a water bucket.
After appraising my sodden state—

“What Sir said stands—but *I’ll* see you lodged! Wait till I fetch water!”

—he tossed these words over his shoulder before vanishing into fog.

“Sir said that, but I’ll have them let you stay. Wait here till I fetch water and come back.”

With those words, he walked away into the fog.
I didn’t know how far he had gone to fetch water.
But in any case, I resolved to wait and stood at the entrance.
Though high on the mountain, the deep fog left the surroundings dark as though night had fallen.
When my motionless body began feeling the cold’s bite, from the direction I’d been staring at intently—as if willing something to materialize—emerged the figure of a man shouldering a heavy water bucket.
He answered my gaze with a smile, entered the hut, and when—after some time—he poked only his head out and said “Come in,” I couldn’t help but feel glad.

The hut’s interior spanned about six tatami mats in size; beyond the earthen entryway—less than one tatami mat wide—stretched wooden flooring covered with straw mats, while a hearth had been built into the kitchen area on the left. Taking a seat nearby to change out of my wet clothes, I then once again expressed my gratitude to the “master” warming himself by the brazier in the back.

“Well, you’ve come properly prepared.”

For the first time, his stern countenance softened into a faint smile, and from that grave mouth came an account: two days prior, lightning had struck the tower, electrocuting two surveyors—one killed instantly, the other left critically injured—who were finally carried down to the base yesterday; with only one man remaining, he worried their work could hardly proceed as planned. Observations had begun there six years prior; this year, with a first-class triangulation marker erected on Mount Tateshina, they had returned to exchange heliograph signals—such was the explanation given.

“If the weather holds, we’ll continue tomorrow—come watch,” he said, a man brusque yet kind-hearted.
Having interrupted them in the midst of their troubles and caused their displeasure, there was no reason whatsoever to blame them for it—I regretted my actions.
I had resolved to forgo dinner, but when presented with hot miso soup—and given that I had declared provisions were available—I could not refuse to eat, and another of my precious rice balls dwindled.
After the meal, in gratitude, I offered my remaining apples, which greatly delighted them.

Dawn broke, yet the wind did not cease; raindrops fell sporadically from high clouds.
As daybreak neared, the rain abated and fog cleared, unveiling the peaks of Maedake, Kitadake, Jizō, Hōō, Kokushi, Kinpu, Yatsugatake, and Tateshina mountains rising above turbulent clouds. There stood Mount Fuji—ethereal as it dominated the Hōō massif—a vision of phantom beauty.

Yet what startled me into recoiling was Kitadake's summit piercing through cloud-quilts in solitary defiance.
The ridgeline swelled upward as if weighed down from north to west, now threatening to collapse eastward under its own excess strength.
This bulging contour—tilted past sixty degrees yet firmly anchored—resembled green bamboo bent to breaking point.
Jet-black cliffs, deep-green dwarf pines; what appeared blue must be grasslands, those white flecks inlaid among them likely lingering snow.
While branding my eyes with the mountain's form—a colossal stone fist thrust before me, pulsing with raw force—I muttered, "Right, I'll climb that next year," and washed my face with a towel steeped in dwarf pine dew.

At five in the morning, I finished breakfast alone and completed my preparations; while asking laborers about mountain names, I kept watch on the sky’s demeanor—the clouds showed no sign of clearing.
Before long, the protagonist too awoke and stepped outside the hut; upon being told signaling would prove futile in this weather, he resolutely set out on his descent at seven o’clock.
After descending some twenty minutes, he was already engulfed in clouds.
A simple mountaineer—one neither drawn to alpine flora nor enchanted by birdsong—when robbed of vistas found their sole remaining interest pinned to how this single path might transform.
Massive boulders and white sand, precipitous rock ridges—with each step this anticipation went unbetrayed.
"If there were some tasty food to fill my now-empty stomach," I thought when descending Folding-screen Rock via chains and ladders and seeing the hut before my eyes.

However, the hut was empty.
Even after entering and searching inside, not a single scrap of food could be found; the water in the iron kettle hanging from the hearth hook had turned completely cold.
Reluctantly drinking it, I left five sen as payment for the water and hurried down through the dark forest with a heavy heart.
When I came to Sasanodaira, there was a half-rotted hut, and a person was resting beside a large load.
That was the owner of Folding-screen Hut.
“This load is rice and dried udon; I have no other food. I just finished lunch.”
“I should’ve left a box of sweets among the futon in the hut,” he told me, to which I responded with a wry smile, “I’m afraid I didn’t notice that,” before we parted ways.

By now I could only spare passing glances at the surrounding scenery; with no capacity to fix it in my mind, my thoughts were wholly consumed by the urge to reach human habitation as swiftly as possible and sate my ravenous hunger. As I descended, the oppressive heat lingering after the storm weighed heavily on my body; my legs faltered as they carried me along the path's guidance. At last, drawn by the roar of a waterfall, I emerged at the Oshiro River—a single log bridge spanned the current, suspended high above the water's surface—which I crossed astride like riding a horse. Descending along the riverbank, I soon reached Komagatake Shrine's village hall—but to my disappointment found its sanctuary mid-renovation; whether halted for harvest season or other reasons mattered little, for only an elderly caretaker remained in residence.

Before the altar lay four red and white *rakugan* offerings; having donated thirty sen and received these votive cakes, I accepted from the old man one *mizuyaki*—a pancake made from udon flour mixed with pickled vegetables that he said were leftovers from his own meal—regained some strength, and hurried straight along the scorching one-*ri* field path to Daigahara.

Looking back, that Kai-Komagatake mountain journey seemed consumed by hunger and appetite; now, as I draft this text decades later, I feel the hardships of that time resurrecting vividly in my memory.
(Drafted October 1896 [Meiji 29], supplemented October 1936 [Shōwa 11])

("Kiso-Komagatake" — 1935–36 [Shōwa 10–11], Mountaineering as Hiking)

("Kai-Komagatake" — January 1937 [Shōwa 12], Mountain and Valley)