Pathway to Japanese Literature

Crossing the Aleutians

On the afternoon of July 6, when we departed Haneda aboard the Northwest plane, it was raining.
Yet we soon emerged above the clouds, and weather conditions proved not entirely unfavorable.

Occasional misty rain streaked the windows while tattered gray clouds raced past.
The aircraft rocked gently at times.
But as we neared waters off the Kuril Islands, air currents abruptly stabilized.
That capacious thirty-six-seat plane hung motionless in air, utterly free of turbulence.
Below us stretched an ocean sealed by dense fog - its upper boundary flat at five thousand feet, textured with cumuliform undulations arrayed like meticulous brushstrokes.

The fog appeared extremely stable.
This became clear when I later saw that day’s weather chart at Fairbanks Observatory - a weak yet intricately structured discontinuity line had just passed through this flight path around that time before emerging over the Pacific side.
Thus, the air currents remained superb.

The prolonged twilight persisted until around eight in the evening, when the sun finally dipped below the fog-blanketed plain.
The horizon-adjacent sky turned wholly crimson, this vermilion hue blending seamlessly into the unblemished celadon firmament above.
The fog’s upper surface extended endlessly - a pale bluish-gray expanse tinged with transparency.
It resembled ink diluted with water.
Within roughly five hours of departing Haneda, we had crossed into an utterly alien realm.

Yet the difference between this celestial world and the terrestrial and maritime realms lying beneath the thick fog was utterly stark.
Memories from when I had researched this thick fog on the outskirts of Nemuro during the war suddenly rose to mind.
On a desolate shore utterly removed from both material civilization and modern culture, people worked silently all day long, drenched in misty rain.
This sun-abandoned world was a world without color.

During this period when the terrifying thick fog characteristic of northern seas hung motionless from the Kuril Islands to the Aleutians, those at sea had to navigate by groping through it at risk to their lives.
Yet for the airplane, these meteorological conditions proved most favorable.
At an altitude between nine thousand and ten thousand feet, riding a westward-trending air current, it maintained a gliding flight.
Or rather, the airplane stayed perfectly fixed at one point in the air while only the scenery shifted with extreme gradualness.

The propeller’s rotation wasn’t excessively violent either; though fast, it maintained a steady, composed spin.
It felt tremendously powerful.
Even the regular air route now felt like it had truly become established.
The crimson hue of the sky eventually faded away, and the surroundings gradually darkened.
Then, though I hadn’t noticed until now, the exhaust flames visible through gaps in the engine cover began to glow red.
It was the color of flames that seemed to reach around nine hundred degrees.
As I stared at the color of those flames, I unwittingly fell asleep.

When I was alerted by the stewardess to fasten my seatbelt and opened my eyes, I found the plane shaking considerably.
Outside was pitch dark; we had apparently descended into the fog.
They must have been preparing to land on Shemya Island.
In the impenetrable dark fog where nothing could be seen, the airplane kept flashing its lights.
Each time the lamps activated, the fog battering the window shone white.
Gradually, the sea surface began appearing black.
Only near the water's surface had the fog thinned slightly.
Then across the dark maritime expanse, numerous lights aligned in a straight line became momentarily visible.
Those were Shemya Island's runway lights.

That this isolated island at the tip of the Aleutian chain should possess fully equipped night landing facilities filled me with a profound sense of temporal dislocation.
Lindbergh’s "Northern Journey" was not such an old story either.
In order to conquer this demonic air route, the Lindbergh couple had resolved to risk their lives.
Over these ten years, while Japan alone remained left behind, the world had made dramatic progress.

The airplane completely descended beneath the fog.
After making a wide turn, the runway lights appeared in two neat rows up close, and soon the airplane made a precise landing.
It was 12:30 AM.

When I stepped out into the pitch-dark exterior, a fierce wind was blowing.
Cold misty rain struck my face.
This small flat island in the northern sea - measuring six or seven miles around - lacked even the semblance of hills.
Not a single tree stood here of course; it was a terrifying place perpetually battered by fierce winds stretching from the Kurils to the Aleutians.
During the one-hour refueling period, we were transported by bus to a waiting room on slightly higher ground.
Not a blade of proper grass grew - only bare black earth stretched out.

The waiting room building and the warehouse-like structure along the way were all constructed by digging into the earth, built so that half lay below ground level. Of course, there had been no alternative but to do this. The waiting room interior was warm, with electric lights that glowed brightly. I drank a cup of hot coffee and stepped out into the pitch-dark exterior.

Upon closer inspection, they had piled the excavated earth around the buildings and arranged it in a somewhat rock garden-like style. This must have been a modest gesture of consideration for those compelled to live on this forbidding island. In these tended garden areas grew alpine plants akin to those found in the Kuril Islands, their delicate white blossoms clinging to stems. Beyond lay only a scattering of pasture-like weeds across an expanse of desolate land. Chilled by the misty rain, I retreated back inside.

We departed at 1:30 AM.
In just about thirty minutes, the outside grew dim with twilight as the eastern sky whitened.
I advanced the clock's hands three hours to make it 4:30.
I felt we had come quite far east.

The airplane rapidly gained altitude, steadily climbing higher.
At around six thousand feet, it finally emerged above the fog.
Then it shifted back to a calm, quiet flight.
The Aleutian Islands lay completely buried beneath this fog as we continued flying over the still-flat fog layer.
If one removed the scene of Shemya Island, the scenery would continue uninterrupted as before.
Yet the sky was gradually growing whiter.

I had fallen asleep without realizing it, but when I suddenly opened my eyes, we were flying over flat tawny-brown land. The sky stood perfectly clear, with white fragmented clouds drifting in scattered patches below. We were crossing the Alaska Peninsula that extends far westward from the Alaskan mainland. This first glimpse of Alaska revealed a landscape far removed from human habitation, exactly as I had imagined.

Not a single proper tree stood visible. Primordial rivers crisscrossed an entirely smooth expanse of ochre-bare land. In the distance loomed numerous rugged peaks of the Aleutian Range, their black forms stark against the sky. Countless snowfields etched thin pure-white lines across every rock face tracing their contours. Each valley must have formed into an exceedingly steep V-shaped gorge of formidable depth.

Before long, far on the distant horizon above haze-like layered clouds, two tall, pure white jagged peaks appeared side by side.
At first, I thought they might be McKinley—such was the magnificence of these rocky mountains.
However, I realized they were indeed high peaks within the Aleutian Range.
They appeared to be on the order of over ten thousand feet in height.
Yet as high mountains of the polar region, they presented a severe form I was seeing for the first time.
I felt that I had finally come to the Alaska I had longed for.

When approaching Anchorage, the land finally turned green.
However, it was flat terrain with sparse coniferous forests and shrubs—a vast wetland stretching as far as the eye could see.
Small marshes, remnants of glaciers, were scattered innumerably across this flat wetland.
There remained no trace whatsoever of anything resembling human activity.
It was still primordial land.
Within this expansive wetland area lay Anchorage's airfield, fully equipped with modern facilities.

Alaska's First Night

Initially, I had planned to stay one night in Anchorage and then immediately fly to Seattle.
Since I was passing through Alaska anyway, I wanted to meet with meteorological personnel and obtain some materials about Alaska's snow and ice to bring back.
So when I consulted the immigration officer, he told me it would be impossible in Anchorage.
He explained that in Alaska, unless one went to the university in Fairbanks, one probably wouldn't meet people interested in such matters.
However, he himself seemed interested; he listened attentively and kindly shared various information.
And so I suddenly changed my mind—I decided to extend my journey all the way to Fairbanks.
However, regarding Northwest Airlines, I couldn't get definite information.
So I requested a taxi and headed into town to visit the Alaska Airlines branch office.

The town was about five miles away, and throughout that distance stretched a wilderness sparsely dotted with fir trees and broad-leaved trees. In this expanse utterly devoid of human presence, only the road had been constructed with remarkable care. The driver, remarking on the rarity of encountering a Japanese person, began engaging me in various topics. I was somewhat taken aback that his very first question concerned what impact China's communization might have on Japan. He then inquired how MacArthur was handling things, speaking about him in a tone one might use when discussing their own uncle.

What surprised me even more was that all the taxis were equipped with two-way radios. Before starting to move, the driver picked up the transmitter and said something like, "We're going to [location]." Then an immediate reply came from the other end through the loudspeaker. When I asked, "What on earth is that?" he replied, "To notify the office," with a slightly puzzled look. He must have thought some hopeless provincial had arrived.

When I arrived in the city, the matter had already been easily settled between Alaska Airlines and Northwest Airlines’ respective branch offices.
However, since there were no flights today, I had no choice but to postpone until tomorrow.
"Or would you prefer to go by charter (hire)?" they inquire.
That was an outrageous idea.
The idea of chartering an entire airplane to fly all the way to Fairbanks was something I had never even dreamed of, so at first I couldn’t grasp what they meant and became flustered.
Of course I decided to stay overnight in Anchorage, but they said all hotels were fully booked with little prospect of vacancies.
And so I asked my now-familiar taxi driver to find me a place to stay, anywhere would do.
Then he took me to a house bearing the grand name of Merrose Hotel.
It was a square wooden house resembling the boarding houses commonly seen in places like Sapporo.

When I rang the bell, a large half-naked man with tousled chest hair emerged and began speaking rapidly with the driver in some unfamiliar tongue. The words were completely incomprehensible. When I looked perplexed, the driver turned to me and translated plainly: “Do you want a single room or would you share?” They might have thought I’d come panning for gold. Finding shared lodging rather daunting, I said “I’ll take a private room,” whereupon they led me to a windowless pitch-dark chamber. As there were two beds here too, I paid for both and finally settled in. Peering into the opposite room that actually had a window, I saw a wrought-iron bunk bed where a tattooed man lay sleeping. Thus even in this lightless cubicle, I gratefully resolved to make do.

Having taken my first step into foreign lands, spending the inaugural night in a windowless wooden boarding house felt somewhat overly theatrical, but being accustomed to such situations through periodic experience, I didn’t particularly feel alarmed. Remaining in the room proved utterly pointless, so I wandered through the town without destination. In this newly developing municipality, I gained significant reference material for understanding what America’s frontier settlements must have been like. I repeatedly encountered men wearing red sweaters with coarse plaid patterns and wide-brimmed hats tilted at precarious angles. Fancifully imagining myself as the protagonist of *Alaska Story*, I worked up cheerful spirits and made two round trips to the town’s outskirts. Drifting through the twilight toward the coast, I discovered within a mixed birch grove numerous blossoms—beach roses and flowers resembling sky-blue harebells—flourishing in abundance. Growing mildly sentimental, I pressed a blossom or two between my notebook’s pages.

Before long I grew hungry and thought to find somewhere for dinner, but couldn't locate a suitable place. The restaurants packed with protagonists from *Alaska Story*—I simply couldn't grasp their layout. After an exhaustive search, I felt a flicker of joy when I finally discovered one ordinary-looking restaurant.

I had heard Alaska's prices were exorbitant, and there at dinner they charged me three and a half dollars. Converted to Japanese currency, this amounted to about 1,300 yen. However, with an appetizer, cocktail, small shrimp, vegetable salad, large New York steak, and ice cream, it was quite a feast. Coffee and bread were, of course, unlimited and free.

With my stomach now full, I slept soundly through my first night at the wooden boarding house in good spirits.

The next morning, as I was washing my face in the washroom, yesterday's tattooed man came over and asked, "What brings you to Alaska?" The gentle voice seemed incongruous with his face, which came as a surprise. Though called tattoos, on his chest was a cross, and on each arm were designs of doves spreading their wings in flight. These had a somewhat different feel from Japanese Kurikara dragon motifs. However, considering that making too many Alaskan acquaintances might prove troublesome, I deflected with polite vagueness—"It’s a marvelous land; I’ve taken quite a liking to it"—and excused myself.

In Fairbanks

Alaska's first night passed without incident.

The Fairbanks-bound airplane departed at 10:20.
There were five or six wealthy people from the mainland United States appearing as though they had come for a summer trip.
In truth, an Alaskan aerial journey is the kind of air travel one should absolutely experience at least once if one becomes wealthy.

The snow valleys of the Alaska Range.
The jagged peak of McKinley.
The desolate expanse of Alaska’s great plain stretched as far as the eye could see.
The meandering course of the Tanana River—a tributary of the Yukon—flowed serenely through it all.
Every scene here differed by orders of magnitude from the landscapes one might envision in Japan.
I came to fully understand that making lighthearted remarks about tourists amidst Akan’s grand scenery would get me nowhere.
Even so, for a Japanese person like myself to speak of an Alaskan aerial journey as if it were my due was hardly justifiable—though this too I owed to snow and ice.

Having encountered North America’s highest peak—the 20,300-foot McKinley—above the clouds and feeling in high spirits, I arrived in Fairbanks.
It was exactly twelve o’clock.
Even in Alaska, befitting its status as the capital, the downtown area was a splendid American city.
Since I had entrusted all my luggage to the Seattle-bound plane in Anchorage, this was a light journey with just a briefcase.
It was a strange thing indeed—having left Japan just two days prior, yet here I was walking through central Alaska with the appearance of someone heading off to school in the morning.

However, thinking I must first secure a hotel, I inquired at two or three places, but my assumption that one could stay in Fairbanks during summer without reservations proved to be a grave miscalculation.
Every hotel I visited refused me outright, and even I began to feel somewhat uneasy.
So I decided to go to the university anyway and got into a taxi.

The university was said to be located five miles outside the city.
Upon leaving the town behind, there was suddenly nothing but untamed wilderness.
The concept of suburban areas surrounding a major city did not apply at all in Alaska’s case.
Stepping even a single pace beyond the town revealed an uncultivated wilderness devoid of dwellings, without even traces of cultivated fields.
And there were only thin broadleaf trees and small Sakhalin firs—ones that in Hokkaido would be about fifteen years old—growing thickly and disorderly across the entire expanse.
Amidst all this, only the road—an unreasonably splendid wide paved road—ran straight through.
Just when I thought we had completely left all human presence behind, numerous splendid buildings came into view on a slightly elevated area.
That was the University of Alaska.

Amidst the numerous buildings, I had the taxi stop at an arbitrary spot, and when I asked a man who appeared to be a student, luckily it turned out to be the Geophysics Department.

When asked “Who have you come to meet?”, I requested: “Anyone will do—please take me to a professor who seems interested in snow or ice.”
The student tilted his head and asked, “Where on earth did you come from?”
“I came from Japan.”
“When did you arrive?”
“Today.”
“You don’t know anyone at this university?”
“No one.”
After some back-and-forth, it was concluded that visiting the department chair’s office was unavoidable, and he led me there.
When I met him, it turned out to be Professor Seaton, an authority on the ionosphere.
The encounter proved somewhat unexpected.
Though this was our first meeting, we had known each other by name.
Moreover, plans had been made for the American Meteorological Society to publish a *Meteorological Compendium*, with both Professor Seaton and myself included among its contributors.
We were colleagues of sorts.
While I felt surprised, the professor appeared far more astonished.
“I never imagined you’d be in a place like this,” I remarked, to which he countered, “I never imagined you’d suddenly appear in a place like this.”
I was informed I was the first Japanese visitor since 1940.
Nevertheless, he expressed delight and promptly gathered the department’s faculty to arrange a two-day schedule.
When he inquired about my lodging situation and heard of my difficulties, he immediately made calls to find accommodations.
One was secured without trouble.

This university had been a college until recently and was called the Alaska Agricultural and Mining School.
It is said research facilities had been extremely inadequate until recently.
However during the war it became a university, and now—centered around Professor Seaton—the entire department was vigorously conducting research on the ionosphere.

Alaska had until very recently been the stage for "gold rush tales." Even then, one could still encounter tattooed men in the capital Fairbanks who looked like they might have stepped straight from the movie *Alaska Story*. Even were a university built in such a land, students would not gather in great numbers. Even drawing from all of Alaska, they would hardly amount to anything significant. There were said to be only about three hundred and fifty students at the time. Yet the research laboratories stood impressively equipped.

The ionosphere research that served as this department's primary endeavor aimed to eliminate wireless communication disturbances, and Fairbanks held the most geographically advantageous position for conducting such research.
They were also conducting research on the aurora borealis.
Various particles flew from the sun and produced the aurora borealis in the upper part of the ionosphere.
Since this aurora borealis occurred slightly south of the North Pole, Fairbanks lay precisely at its center.

When it comes to the aurora borealis，Norwegian scholars’ research had long been renowned，and even in Japan，that work was well known．
However，studies in this field from Alaska were scarcely recognized．
Incidentally，there had been a scholar who had steadily pursued auroral research by himself since the Alaska Agricultural and Mining School era．
This was Professor Fuller，who had passed away in recent years；it is said he continued observations for over a decade，photographing auroras entirely alone．
Yet since few paid attention to research from such an institution，Professor Fuller had—so to speak—died in obscurity．
It was said there had been almost no research funding either．

However, in recent years, with advancements in wireless technology, research on the ionosphere—closely related to radio wave transmission—had become a matter of great practical importance.
Therefore, the U.S. government decided to establish a geophysics laboratory at this University of Alaska to continue Professor Fuller’s research while initiating new studies on the ionosphere.
Thus, with Professor Seaton—an authority on the ionosphere—as head professor, they deployed nearly thirty researchers and launched an extensive research program.

This Geophysics Laboratory had developed into a larger research institute since last year, and a splendid building was under construction.
It was to be a three-story concrete structure, with construction costs reportedly amounting to one million dollars (equivalent to 360 million yen in Japanese currency).
The foundation had already been fully completed.
Since the remaining work would progress quickly, it was said that they would complete the exterior by autumn and move in by the end of 1949.
If this research institute was completed, Professor Fuller’s aspirations would be fully realized.

If one had conducted research on the aurora borealis—something unrelated to both agriculture and mining—at the Alaska Agricultural and Mining School, they would surely have been met with cold stares from those around them. However, that research proved greatly beneficial not only for academia but also for the university itself. This university in a regional area might serve as an example of why institutions should conduct research grounded in their local environment. This was not merely beneficial in some base or immediate sense; it was also academically sound.

Interestingly enough, research on snow and ice was not being conducted much there.
I had once been asked to give a talk on snow.
With both the university president and dean in attendance, they stated that going forward, this university would like to expand into snow and ice research from a geographical perspective.
I was somewhat impressed that all of the university’s so-called upper echelons were so enthusiastic about research.

University of Alaska Research

On my first night in Fairbanks, the sun barely set, so I ended up staying awake entirely.
The next morning, Professor Seaton came to pick me up by car, so I stifled my drowsiness and accompanied him.
During the car ride, the topic of the Alaska Highway came up.
Although part of it had been damaged by frost heave—due to oversights from rushing the construction—it was said to have now been completely repaired.
Last summer, Mrs. Seaton and her three daughters alone were said to have driven from New York to Fairbanks over twenty-one days.
Had this occurred ten years prior, even in America, it would have been a story straight out of a dream.

The research at this university had coalesced around ionospheric studies originating from Professor Fuller’s aurora borealis research, as previously mentioned.
Professor Fuller’s aurora research was naturally being continued.
Fairbanks occupied the central zone of auroral visibility where nightly displays gave the research inherent geographical advantage.
When I first heard this account from Professor Seaton upon our meeting and exclaimed “How fortunate!”, he countered with a laugh: “Summer’s useless—there being no darkness here. Though having just arrived today, you wouldn’t know that yet.”
The local aurora methodology largely followed Norway’s Størmer approach—simultaneous photography from two distant stations followed by stereoscopic height calculations.
A young researcher showed me numerous photographs where forms transformed within seconds, making strict synchronization between observation points appear remarkably challenging.

The research on the ionosphere was under the charge of Dr. Jones.
The principle was the same as the method Professor Appleton in England had begun about twenty-five years earlier.
It was a method of sending out shortwaves, receiving their reflections from the ionosphere, and determining their height—nothing particularly novel.
The only difference there lay in vertically transmitting the waves upward and receiving their reflections within the same room.
They had reportedly been continuing this 24-hour continuous observation for nearly five years now.
By patiently measuring how the reflections from the E-layer and F-layer underwent diurnal, lunar, and long-term changes, they were thoroughly investigating the ionosphere’s electron density, temperature, and other properties.
Dr. Jones was very pleased that the influence of the moon’s phases had recently been clearly grasped.

This kind of research could not yield significant results—particularly practical effects—no matter how thoroughly conducted at a single location. Therefore, this research was being conducted as part of a more extensive nationwide study on preventing wireless communication disturbances. Not limited to this research, even Dr. Noke's studies on broadcast wave reception disturbances had their defining characteristic in scholars across the United States collaboratively researching the same issue at various locations. For science to be truly useful, this collaborative research was absolutely essential. The reason American science had been rapidly coming to fruition in recent years lay in part in this spirit of collaboration.

The only meteorologist was Professor Yark.
His research too related to wireless communication.
He had been investigating how ultra-shortwave communications with wavelengths of several centimeters became disrupted by meteorological conditions.
The greatest challenge in this problem lay in measuring humidity at low temperatures aloft.
Humidity measurement under low temperatures had once been thought solved through Dunmore-type electric hygrometers.
However, such indirect methods ultimately failed to provide definitive solutions.
Discussion eventually turned to the dew point method using photoelectric tubes as potentially optimal.
This humidity measurement issue at low temperatures required no elaborate equipment while contributing to meteorology's fundamental questions.
For methodical investigation in places like Japan, this would make an ideal research topic.

In his conversation with Professor Seaton, a highly informative discussion regarding the future of Japanese science emerged.
That concerned postwar British research.
Britain too had suffered severe economic damage in the recent war and could not allocate much funding to basic scientific research postwar.
However, without using significant machinery or equipment, very good studies were gradually emerging.
The opinion was that American research tended to become overly dependent on machinery.
In cases such as nuclear research, the issue differed, but in physics research in a broader sense, there still remained a vast field yet to be explored.
Even in the realm of nuclear physics, the excuse of "having neither funds nor equipment" still appeared to hold no water.

After the lecture, Dr. Noke offered to show me the outdoor observatory and took me to the Communication Disturbance Observatory located six miles from the university.
It was truly in the heart of the Alaskan wilderness.
In a slightly open area within the grassland stood a single wooden observatory, with two cars left in a severely dirtied state, looking as though they had been carelessly discarded.

Upon entering, three young observers were organizing records. On the three walls, self-recording instruments were lined up across every surface. They were continuously recording broadcasts from Washington and Hawaii across four divided wavelength bands. They had already maintained day-and-night records for eight years. Since the sunspot cycle spans approximately twelve years, observing at least one full cycle was necessary. “We’ll need five more years regardless,” Dr. Noke said with a wry smile. “It’s an endurance test.”

These records were sent to Washington after preliminary organization and examined by cross-referencing them with records from various locations.
And thus various results were obtained.
Therefore, the researchers here were akin to building parts of a grand edifice, forever unable to become stars.
However, this place was still relatively better—among wireless communication disturbances, there were what were called the Dellinger phenomenon and the polar region phenomenon, but since the polar region phenomenon manifested clearly here, there seemed to be some satisfaction.

When I stepped outside，there were tremendous numbers of mosquitoes．Even in Karafuto’s tundra regions，people are severely tormented by summer mosquitoes，but Alaska surpassed that．Dr．Noke joked，＂Just open your hand anywhere and grab—you’ll catch 120 mosquitoes，＂but these insects were truly vicious．

In winter there were of course no mosquitoes, but instead it remained pitch dark all day, with temperatures as low as minus forty degrees Celsius sometimes persisting for three weeks straight. This was no easy research. However, the heating was fully equipped. In the basement there was a heavy oil burner furnace, and heat rose directly through the gaps in the floor grates. Since there was ample electricity available, both the power and telephone lines were reportedly routed together via underground cables from the basement all the way to the university. A sense of battling nature’s fury was amply present within this unremarkable little observatory.

Life Within the Arctic Circle

In Fairbanks, what troubled me most was the absence of night.
Because it stayed bright so long, I ended up carelessly organizing letters before realizing it had become 11:30.
When I hurriedly got into bed, it just then began to grow slightly dark.
However, no sooner had I dozed off than my surroundings became completely bright, startling me awake.
The sun had already risen considerably, and the clouds were glowing crimson.
When I checked my watch, it was still half past one in the morning.
I had heard stories about it, but actually experiencing this nightless world left me more disoriented than expected.
Outside, airplanes roared through the sky as if exploiting the endless daylight to its fullest.

The dogs, apparently finding it difficult to sleep too, kept barking incessantly.
Unable to fall asleep properly, I went out into town only to find an utterly strange spectacle.
Every shop had closed its shutters and lay completely still.
Along both sides of the wide avenue, only the show windows stood neatly arrayed, while not a single soul occupied the road's center.
Yet the sun already hung high in the sky, creating a scene indistinguishable from midday.

I walked a little through it, but something felt distinctly off.
In this metropolis under broad daylight where some anomaly had occurred—as if humanity itself had suddenly vanished—I grew gradually unnerved.
I took a photograph of the scene, promptly concluded my exploration, and returned to the hotel.

Summer remains manageable by comparison; when winter arrives and conditions invert completely, one cannot help but feel apprehensive.
Around eleven in the morning before noon, faint light finally emerges in the eastern sky.
Yet by the time one finishes lunch and takes brief respite, night has already fallen.

With such conditions persisting for nearly half a year, various public health issues arise.

When I mentioned this to Professor Seaton in the university cafeteria, he nodded. "Precisely. We take comprehensive measures for student health—using sun lamps while also ensuring sufficient vitamin D intake as supplementation." He pointed to a can of Carnation Milk before us. Closer inspection revealed "Vitamin D Added" printed on its label.

The coldest temperatures occurred around Christmas, with severe cold of about minus forty degrees persisting for nearly three weeks. There had reportedly been an instance last year when the temperature dropped to minus fifty-one degrees. The rivers naturally froze over, and from mid-November until early May, automobiles could pass across them. During the most intense cold spells, people had no choice but to remain indoors. Yet with perpetual darkness throughout the day, even imagining such conditions made for quite an ordeal. A place like Hokkaido still could not join the ranks of truly cold countries.

While the natural conditions were so extremely harsh, the facilities—as one would expect from America—were thoroughly well-equipped. The university was located five miles away from town in the middle of wilderness, so all students lived in dormitories. Of course, there were official residences for the professors as well. However, as the official residences were still insufficient, they were said to be constructing new ones one after another. Behind the new research institute as well, six splendid official residences were under construction. When I peeked inside, all the foundations were complete. The floor stood about eight shaku high, structured in a semi-basement style. This section was constructed of concrete, with this first floor housing a warehouse, drying room, and boiler room. It was said that a log-framed wooden single-story house would be built on top of this. Ordinary houses were also generally built in this manner.

Most houses' kitchens were fully electrified. The kitchens contained only a gleaming electric cooking stove and a pure white-painted electric refrigerator, neatly arranged. At this time of year, no matter whose house you visited, they would bring out a well-chilled beer from that refrigerator. In places near the Arctic, the dream of living in houses fully equipped with modern amenities had already been nearly realized. While Fairbanks still retained traces of urban life, even in places like Point Barrow on the Arctic Ocean coast, such facilities were said to exist. And even in midsummer July, icebergs were still said to be approaching the coast at Point Barrow.

Speaking of Point Barrow, I heard an astonishing story from Mr. Lindley, the forecaster at the Fairbanks Weather Station. It concerned their conducting regular meteorological observation flights to the Arctic every other day. They apparently used B-29s to fly from Fairbanks to the Arctic Ocean coast of Canada, then proceeded directly to the airspace above the North Pole before returning via Point Barrow. This regular flight—taking eighteen hours—was conducted year-round without fail, even during winter. Over a decade earlier, when the Soviet Union’s Vodopyanov had undertaken his "Arctic Flight," the whole world had marveled at "how fantasy had become reality." I could not help but feel a profound sense of temporal dislocation.

Alaska was a battlefield between modern amenities and the primal forces of nature.
On our way back from the field observatory, we rode into downtown Fairbanks in Dr. Noke’s car.
When he stopped briefly before the department store—apparently as planned—Mrs. Noke climbed in carrying a large parcel of purchases.
“Tonight happens to be when I dine out with my wife—won’t you join us?” Dr. Noke proposed, so I gratefully accepted his invitation.
When I asked Mrs. Noke, “How long have you been in Alaska?” she answered, “Two and a half years.”
“More than enough,” Mrs. Noke retorted in a clipped tone.
While Dr. Noke had his work here, one could hardly blame his wife for feeling that way.

We entered a cocktail bar with some neon sign displaying its name. Though bright outside, I found it interesting they turned on the neon signs when the hour came. When we went up to the second floor, they had closed all windows to make it pitch dark. Fluorescent lamp stands dimly illuminated only the tabletops. Dr.Noke ordered a Manhattan cocktail while explaining, “We have dinner out with my wife like this once a week.” The conversation quickly turned serious as he asked me various questions about Japanese sentiment toward the Occupation forces in Tokyo, recent Communist Party movements, and Shinto’s postwar status.

“Shinto has nearly vanished,” I began. “Though strictly speaking, Shinto isn’t a religion in the Western Christian sense. Most Japanese were Buddhists who simultaneously kept household altars. It’s simply that those altars have disappeared.”

When I added, “It’s somewhat different from polytheism too—truthfully I don’t fully grasp it myself,” he responded with evident interest: “That’s the first I’ve heard this. Fascinating.” Considering Shinto, kamikaze, and special attack units as part of an unbroken chain, one naturally grows curious about what became of Shinto thereafter.

When we finished our cocktails and went down to the lower dining hall, it was bright as if morning had broken.
We had experienced about an hour of artificial night.

After finishing our meal quickly, we drove around the city by car while they gave me various explanations.
It was extremely interesting to see all at once the log cabins of early settlers, mid-period houses, and vast residential areas that had rapidly expanded postwar.
I felt I could clearly grasp Alaska's development.

It was past ten o'clock—though of course still daytime—when I was taken to the house of a rather distinctive man named Mr.Wheeler.
I would next introduce Mr.Wheeler's story.
Then we visited the newly built house of a man called Mr.Jagii who had recently moved from Point Barrow.
The single room combining kitchen, living room and dining area was a bright space with one entire wall made of a single glass pane.
Though containing only one small bedroom addition, the electric refrigerator, electric cooker and combined sink-cooking counter gleamed spotlessly white, forming attractive decor.
The owner appeared to be a man who had long graduated from the experiences described in Alaska Monogatari.
He now considered piloting small airplanes his chief diversion.
Had we lingered longer, the sun—which had briefly dipped below the horizon—would have begun rising again, so we hastily took our leave.

An Unusual Account

As we drove through the residential area, Dr. Noke stopped the car and said, “There’s an unusual man I’d like to introduce you to—care to go in?” It was before a beautiful small house surrounded by lawn. In the grass lay a pair of large deer antlers still joined at the base, while a completely naked child played in a sandbox.

Dr. Noke called out to the child, “Is your father here?” as he boldly opened the front door and entered. Then, urging me forward, he briskly headed down toward the basement.

Though called a basement, it was more of a half-basement with sufficiently high ceilings. In one of these rooms sat the master of the house—Mr. Wheeler—before a large rucksack surrounded by scattered items. His fishing preparations were immediately apparent. Mr. Wheeler stood over six feet tall with a body as supple as a deer’s, his movements instantly marking him as both sportsman and gentleman.

He roughly tossed gear into the rucksack, forcefully crammed green rubber boots inside, then led us to an adjacent room with an air of finality. “This here’s your workplace, Professor,” Dr. Noke remarked, glancing back at me. The walls displayed taxidermied beasts and fish prints flanking a central anvil encircled by metalworking tools. Half the long wall-side table overflowed with fishing rods and tackle; the remainder stood arrayed with firearms and gunpowder tins. “Apologies for the disorder—we depart fishing tomorrow,” explained the homeowner as he bound six rods into metal tubes. These were crafted from Duralumin.

Upstairs in the parlor awaited Mrs. Wheeler—a striking blonde who popped beer can tabs while declaring “This is Alaska for you” through distributed cans. Clutching chilled beverages, she conversed with Mrs. Noke while we three men talked among ourselves.

The conversation proved thoroughly engaging, with his knowledge being startlingly precise.
Of course, given that he had formerly served as a geography professor for some years, it stood to reason his expertise in that field would be particularly robust.
He now worked as a land custodian while pursuing hunting and fishing—activities that appeared to have wholly supplanted his academic career.
Moreover, he occasionally contributed articles to magazines.

Now regarding Mr. Wheeler’s tales—their sheer magnitude existed on an entirely different plane, leaving me rather dumbfounded.
"Will you too be returning tomorrow?
"In that case," he declared, "since the timing aligns perfectly, let us travel together to Anchorage."
When I inquired about his destination, he responded, "I'm bound for trout fishing around the Alaska Peninsula."
He then retrieved an expansive map from the shelf and unfurled it across the floor as he continued his exposition.
Gesturing toward Lake Iliamna on the map, he elaborated: "Using this Iggigik area as my basecamp, I intend to fish my way through the surrounding marshlands."

It was an immense distance—a place where trains were naturally nonexistent.
When I inquired further, it turned out he would charter a seaplane in Anchorage, fly to Iggigik, use that as his base, then land in various marshes to fish his way around.

When I must have looked somewhat dumbfounded, he brought out many color photographs and showed them to me.
Indeed, he used a small red seaplane.
There were also photographs showing large rainbow trout they had caught, lined up with vivid red streaks visible.
As I stood there somewhat awestruck, Mr. Wheeler calmly explained, “For a small plane like this, it’s about $35 to $50 per hour, but if you charter a twin-engine aircraft, they’ll charge you around $500 per trip.”

Dr. Noke, apparently well-acquainted with such matters, showed no surprise whatsoever.
“In winter, hunting; in summer, fishing—that’s this man’s profession.”
“And he sometimes writes fish stories for magazines,” he added as a note.

“Did you hunt the large deer antlers on the lawn too?” I timidly asked.
“That’s from this winter’s hunt,” he said.
“Last winter I bagged two.”
“Moose are said to be the largest beasts in the Americas, measuring over six feet at the shoulder.”
“The meat’s stored in the refrigerator—we take out bits from time to time to eat—but there’s still plenty left.”

“Can you eat one moose in a year?” I asked.
“Most of it goes to the dogs,” he replied nonchalantly.
“I only eat the choice parts.”

The conversation turned to snow.
Having felt rather overwhelmed until now, I brought up how Japan likely had the worst snow—mentioning that along Honshu’s northern coast, places accumulating around five meters were hardly uncommon.
“Then again,” he countered, “in Alaska’s First District—the ice cap along Canada’s Pacific coast—they say a single storm can dump ten meters.”

When I asked, “That must be localized drifting snow?” he replied, “Even if you call it an ice cap, its area is probably about half the size of Japan’s Honshu,” while pulling out an atlas.
“It’s not that large—about the size of Hokkaido,” he said, showing me the map.
Having until now in Japan been telling young students things like “It’s important to have a global perspective” struck me as somewhat embarrassing.
I found myself deeply impressed by how truly vast the world was.
I resolved not to boast so much about Hokuriku and Hokkaido’s snow from then on.

The next morning, as agreed, when I went to the airport waiting room at twelve o'clock, I found Mr. Wheeler sitting there composedly, holding about seven large pieces of luggage—rucksacks, trunks, bundles of fishing rod cases, and such.
Mrs. Wheeler had also come to see him off and offered an apology regarding last night.
This greeting alone bore a slight resemblance to what one might encounter in Japan.