Pathway to Japanese Literature

Author: Kikuchi Yūhō

A Hint of Southern Europe

It was at 11 a.m. on July 22nd that we departed Kobe aboard the Shanghai Maru, an express liner of the Yusen Line servicing Shanghai.
Since dusk would fall precisely at Kurushima Strait, and because one could view the most island-rich and beautiful parts of the Seto Inland Sea in daylight while being caressed by cool breezes impervious to summer’s heat, nothing surpassed traveling by Yusen Line ships for a summer journey to Unzen.
We arrived in Nagasaki at nine o'clock the following morning. Upon reaching the wharf, a welcoming car awaited us. We immediately boarded it and set our course straight for the Shimabara Peninsula.
My companions were Mr. Ueno and Mr. Ōtsuka.

The previous time we ascended Unzen, we had crossed by boat from Motogi to Kōbama, so this time we deliberately chose to travel overland.
The fifteen-ri coastal road along Chiiwa Beach, though lacking in flat stretches, offered many vistas too captivating to pass by, leaving no room for boredom.
From around Enoura, the sea came into view, with several small islands and countless fishing boats visible upon its surface.
At times we gazed upon it through gaps in pine groves; at other times from cliff tops as we traveled.
All the while, across the bay, Unzen's familiar warm visage kept constant watch over us.

As we passed through the Aino isthmus and finally entered the peninsula, the scenery added yet another layer of charm.
The road ran through precipitous areas where Mount Unzen’s foothills plunged into the sea, forcing us to frequently traverse perilous cliffs—yet this very challenge made the scenic beauty unfold with each step.

It is often said that this coastal road’s character closely resembles that stretch between Nice and Monaco along Europe’s most celebrated route—the so-called Côte d’Azur of the Riviera coast, renowned as the continent’s most beautiful roadway.
I too had previously endorsed this comparison.
The driving experience along this coastal road—alternately nicknamed Corniche Road for how it clings to sheer cliffs—bore no small resemblance to its European counterpart, where one discovers pine-clad islets beneath Southern Europe’s signature azure skies mirrored on a jade-green sea.
That foreigners delight in this coastal road makes perfect sense; one can only nod in agreement.
Concrete barriers installed at intervals along the road and other safety precautions strikingly resembled those along the Riviera.
Of all vistas along this route, none makes a deeper first impression than the view upon emerging from Aino isthmus and facing Chiiwa Beach’s emerald-hued open waters from the cliff tops.

Beneath our gazing eyes lay the magnificent Chiiwa Pine Grove tracing a long semicircle, its arc bordered by white waves forming two-tiered curves along its edge. Between the frothing surf and pine grove stretched a broad sandy beach with gentle slopes. This elevated view alone offered splendid scenery, but shifting one's gaze slightly revealed where the pines ended: there, the rugged foothills of Sarubayama—one of Mount Unzen's volcanic peaks—plunged seaward to form the Kizu Peninsula jutting into deep blue waters; beyond it, the Kunisaki Peninsula faced Nomo Peninsula across the bay, their combined embrace grandly enclosing Chiiwa Beach while countless fishing boats with white sails scattered across the emerald waters like strewn petals. It stood utterly picturesque—a prelude wholly befitting Unzen, renowned for vistas of surpassing beauty.

The stretch from here to Kōbama offered an unbroken succession of fine views, but above all, the vista from directly above Futatsu—looking down upon that small constructed harbor and the amusement park jutting from the port’s tip at Bentenzaki—possessed a jewel-like cohesion of beauty.
The Kōbama Railway had been opened between Aino and Kōbama, and though I once tried riding it myself, I should note here that as it passes through several tunnels in quick succession and traverses solely along cliff tops, it far surpasses the motor road in terms of scenic vistas.

We arrived at Kōbama Hot Springs at noon.
At a place called Ikkakurō, we had a leisurely lunch.
The ascent to Unzen from the Nagasaki area is typically made via Kōbama; though there exists what's called the Kibamichi Road ascending from Chiiwa, Kōbama offers both a better road and greater convenience.
From Kōbama stretched a two-and-a-half-ri ascent with a splendid automobile road three to two-and-a-half ken wide.
This two-and-a-half-ri climb was a steep mountain pass winding through countless twists and turns, each bend revealing vistas that grew ever more splendid as we ascended.
The "Kago-tachiba" rest area, located partway up the slope, had served as a resting lodge for feudal lords during their mountain climbs, with the panoramic view from there being renowned as Unzen's foremost scenic attraction.
When counting Unzen's principal peaks—Fugen first among them, followed by Myōken, Nita Pass, Kinugasa, Takaiwa, and Nodake—the locations possessing far superior panoramic beauty would not number ten in total. Yet this vantage too held distinctive merits: below our eyes lay beautiful Tachibana Bay, while beyond the opposing shores of Nishisonogi and Kitadakara stretched Ōmura Bay—indented like a lake—shimmering in lapis lazuli hues.
Beyond Nomo Peninsula stretched the boundless Genkai Sea, while separately lay the Amakusa Sea connecting Tachibana Bay with Genkai—its expanse dotted with large and small Amakusa Islands scattered like stones across a go board.
With such a panorama spread before us, one could well say it sufficed to captivate any traveler.
Particularly striking was the view at our immediate feet: within the verdant folds where Unzen's foothills stretched their ridges into the distance nestled Suwa Pond—a chain of interconnected mountain lakes. With its comma-shaped form bearing a jade hue, it appeared as though some mystical waterscape.
One could scarcely fathom how profoundly this Suwa Pond enhanced Kago-tachiba's panoramic beauty.

From Kago-tachiba, Unzen Park lies nearby.
Before long, having ascended 2,200 shaku, we reached the prefectural park and untied our shoes at the Kyushu Hotel hot spring inn.
Since I had stayed in that same room before, the familiar inn felt comforting.
While resting awhile, Park Superintendent Sono—also an old acquaintance—appeared.
In coolness matching Sapporo's morning and evening temperatures, we felt reborn.
At any rate, urged to first bathe, we soaked in the hot spring before donning yukata and setting out to tour the hells as our initial venture.

The hells here lacked the grandeur of Beppu's Sea Hell and Blood Pond Hell, but rather than being scattered like those in Beppu, over thirty hells of varying sizes were concentrated in one place, creating a spectacle all their own.
In this regard, they resembled Noboribetsu Onsen in Hokkaido, but surpassed the latter in surrounding scenic beauty and scale.
These hells existed in the remnants of explosion crater hills formed by Kinugasayama and Yadake as crater walls, generally divided by Obisan's hills into large hell clusters in the north and small hell clusters in the south.
The surroundings were encircled by lush mountains and hills, where red pines stood abundantly in every direction, contributing not insignificantly to the scenic beauty.
The stench of hydrogen sulfide permeated the air as sights flickered through mountains, hills, red pines, and billowing steam—capricious winds weaving a vision of hellish landscape.

Tales of Christian Martyrdom

We exited through the back entrance of Kyushu Hotel, passed along the Hell Tour Promenade, and proceeded to inspect each hell one by one.
First came a mud volcano protected as a Natural Monument.
A three-to-four-tsubo depression held a shallow spring that erupted bluish-gray volcanic mud—decomposed rock matter—several times per minute from its depths. This built so-called mud volcanoes into conical shapes wherever it flowed, their spreading bases indistinguishable from lava emerging from proper volcanoes.
When accumulated deposits overcame the gas's eruptive force, escaping fumes sought new vents along mountainsides to birth small parasitic volcanoes.
Though diminutive in scale, this formation differed not one whit from active volcanic conditions—earning academic renown as geology's most flawless exemplar.

Along the hells' roadside stood features like the Sanzu River, Sword Mountain, Mountain of Death's Departure, Slope of Aging, and Sai-no-Kawara dry riverbed, while the hells themselves—Screaming Hell, Difficult Birth Hell, Endless Hell, Falsehood Hell, Slaughter Hell, Eighty Thousand Hells, Thread Hell, and Seishichi Hell among others—could not help but elicit wry smiles; yet despite these infernal names, visitors found themselves astounded by the beauty of their surroundings.
Along the hills bordering these hells, where hell-smoke drifted close, Unzen azaleas—their leaves finely serrated and renowned even as horticultural cultivars—spread across the terrain like creeping stone blankets. As one ascended higher, mountain azaleas and Yōraku azaleas thrived among red pines.
The beauty of their flowering season defied description, for when I had last visited here, it had been precisely when the azaleas were in full bloom.
When autumn arrived, various deciduous shrubs took on their autumn hues, and in particular, the Yōraku azaleas turned a deep crimson.
The beauty of autumn foliage staining the hells crimson like blood was not hard to imagine.

The Yōraku azaleas formed communities in areas near the hells where seasonal winds relentlessly drove plumes of steam, their vigorous proliferation immediately noticeable to the eye.
The Unzen azaleas flourished undisturbed even upon ground where subterranean heat penetrated one shaku deep.
Particularly above Screaming Hell and Jaken Hell—which spewed the most sulfurous fumes to stain surrounding rocks yellow—the foliage of red pines growing where sulfur gases perpetually drifted displayed an unusually vivid green hue, presenting compelling material for botanical study.
I noted how a species of sedge called 'shimatentsuki' exhibited its most brilliant colors while thriving where scalding waters flowed, yet persisted only feebly in areas with tepid streams.
Nor could I ignore how waterways carrying boiling springs from various hells—steam rising from their surfaces—had their beds dyed a striking jade hue.
This jade coloration originated from single-celled algae proliferating in the heated waters, their current reproductive phase intensifying the crystalline blue-green tones.
For one such as myself, ever most captivated by flora amidst nature's workings, encountering these phenomena held profound fascination.

I stood before Screaming Hell and stood before Endless Hell.
No—the names of these hells mattered little.
A terrifying roar rose from the earth's depths with growling reverberations that threatened to deafen.
Beneath rocks coated with sulfides and silicic acid deposits, the ground seethed and churned violently as hydrogen sulfide spewed from fumaroles and steam billowed upward in thick clouds.
The gray pool boiled ferociously across its surface, roaring with dreadful intensity.
The thought that a single misstep would reduce my body to mangled ruin made every hair stand erect.

When I closed my eyes, a terrifying vision instantly appeared there—
Groups of men and women stripped naked were restrained upon those rocks yonder and by this hot spring's edge.
Jailers resembling ox-headed and horse-headed demons lashed them with tormenting whips.
They endured the lashes in silence, so that despite the hell's subterranean rumblings, a deathly stillness ruled all surroundings.
What uniformly shone from their chests to pierce my eyes were small crosses—
No—they were phantom crosses!
Some among them lay prone with limbs bound by coarse ropes, scalding spring water poured upon their backs.
The stench of their seared and blistered skin mingled with sulfurous fumes to assail my nostrils.
Others hung inverted by their ankles above fumaroles' maws.
What else could this be but a scroll unfurling some ghastly hellscape tableau?

Suddenly, billowing white smoke seemed to wipe everything from my sight—then in the hellscape tableau that next appeared, a young man lay beside the hellscape, barely clinging to life.
He had been tormented for sixteen days straight, yet still refused to renounce his faith.
His entire body festered completely, his mouth, eyes, and nose ulcerated like a leper’s, while an unbearable stench emanating from him horribly assailed the nostrils.
Yet he still smiled serenely, praising the glory of heaven; above him blazed the Christian name Simeon, shining like an illumination through the sky to pierce my eyes.

Yet again, I witnessed an even more astonishing sight.
Upon rocks emitting a deafening subterranean roar stood a young woman, reduced to a single crimson burn mark, forced upright.
Her lustrous hair appeared to reach her heels.
Around her slender neck was tied a massive weight that nearly concealed her plump, bud-like breasts.
Each time she staggered toward the brink of plunging into the roaring hell below, she summoned every ounce of strength to barely hold herself back.
But her complexion remained composed and unchanged.
She was thus tormented day after day.
Above her as well, my eyes discerned illuminated characters spelling "Isabella" in vivid clarity.
Ah, but how long will she be able to endure that!

When I opened my eyes, dazzled as if by a blinding light, only beautiful nature and hell's plumes of smoke lay before me.
Tales of Christian Martyrdom and the Unzen Hells—these two cannot be considered separately.
The gruesome tales of Unzen Hell that adorn several pages of Japan's Christian history will surely revive in the memories of those visiting Unzen alongside the chronicles of Hara Castle.

Slope.

After completing my tour of the hells, I set out for the golf links located ten-odd chō away to admire the approaching evening scenery. As golf courses go, I know none that combines such exquisite vistas with such welcoming warmth. Truly surpassing Rokko in merit, its reputation as the Orient's finest seems no exaggeration. Though no golfer myself, I feel an ineffable nostalgic longing for these grounds. That they span sixty thousand tsubo or stretch three thousand yards means nothing to me. That they stand as Japan's foremost public links—accessible to any who pay twenty sen, unlike aristocratic courses elsewhere—this too signifies naught. What matters is coming freely to this elegant clubhouse to become intoxicated by beauty both serene and insistent—a beauty that laps at one's consciousness like waves murmuring secrets. In this spirit do I extol Unzen's Golf Links.

The links lay at the contact point between Higashi-Unzen Volcano and Nishi-Unzen Volcano, bearing Mount Yadake immediately at their rear while commanding Karaike—the lowest ground between Yadake and Nodake. The foothills of Myōken-dake, connected to Nodake, formed magnificent slopes that together with Ishiwariyama to the far left created the First Fukigoe barrier housing a parasitic volcano—all enclosing this vast basin bounded to the north.
To beautify this basin, a magnificent pine grove extended through the links' center like a central island.
The beauty of these links ultimately resided in the splendid expanses of their slopes and in this mountain-encircled basin's harmonious form.
Nothing obstructed the view; in Karaike's lowland, hundreds of horses grazed from the pond's edge across smooth lawns to the foothills, adding pictorial charm, while on the links' distant grassy slopes—equally verdant—golfers and visitors descending from Fugen swarmed like scattered beans.
Particularly during this summer season, with nearly a thousand foreign guests present, Western women in azure and crimson dresses brightened these inclines as they dispersed—an utterly exotic spectacle only rivaled by Karuizawa's famed vistas.

Unzen's highest peak Fugen was not visible from there，but Myōken-dake—concealing Fugen behind it—stood resolute in its enduring form，reigning over these golf links．Imagine this：when May arrives，the foothills become adorned with azaleas；when autumn comes，crimson hues gradually climb from their base upward．Surrounded by mountains on all sides，utterly removed from worldly concerns，the beauty of these links—smooth as virgin skin—manifested ever more profoundly as evening approached and tranquility deepened．Having fully savored this beauty，we returned via waiting automobile．Yet summer days lingered long，and with daylight still remaining，we ventured into drizzling skies to take Kibamichi Road down toward Chigoochi Falls on our return．

Kibamichi Road was the path descending from Unzen to Chiiwa; though passable by automobile, its sharp curves combined with the narrow and steep roadway meant Kōbamichi Road was more frequently chosen.
However, as this road descended between the foothills of Kinugasayama and Myōken, it allowed us to look down upon numerous small ridges running below.
While discovering the snow-white automobile road ahead that snaked through the valley in an S-shape amidst verdant greenery, and always viewing both Chiiwa Beach and Chiiwa Pine Grove between the mountain foothills, we found the sensation of descending in one breath to be at times heart-stopping yet profoundly intriguing.
The showers had started and stopped intermittently, but when a setting sun broke through the season's gray clouds—its light causing halation—both Chiiwa Beach beneath our feet and the sky above blazed uniformly; this solemn seascape of merged azure captivated us.
The halation of Unzen was also one of its renowned features.

The setting sun pierced through clouds that shunned the heavens—a dull metallic gray—while the glittering sea stretched endlessly beyond.

After descending about one-third of Kibamichi Road and parking the automobile, we immediately reached Chigoochi Falls upon going down into the valley.
Though counted among hot spring attractions, this waterfall lacked scenic merit—its rocks stained red with iron oxide, its waters murky rather than clear.
I found it hardly worth a special visit, yet when facing these falls while knowing the Chigoochi legend, I could feel only a faint flicker of interest stir within me.

On our return journey, we passed through the Bessho basin; there, a large prefectural pool was supposed to be built.
Since this area adjoins a magnificent primeval forest where crystal-clear water gushes forth inexhaustibly, one could create a pool of any size by utilizing it.
Along with the pool, a children’s water play area was to be created, transforming it into a water amusement park; surely the day when this would become one of Unzen’s renowned attractions was not far off.

My first day's itinerary had concluded.
What concerned me was tomorrow’s weather for ascending Fugen.
The last time I had ascended, I’d encountered a thunderstorm at the summit—ending up seeing nothing at all—and had come down drenched to the bone; this time I absolutely wouldn’t climb unless confirming clear weather first.
According to Mr. Sono, fog had lingered over Fugen for nearly a week now, obscuring any view; given today’s showery sky, he saw little hope of it clearing tomorrow.
Though bitterly disappointed, I resolved—very well then—to wait however many days until the fog lifted.
Then just before ten that night, as I was about to retire to bed, came a knock—Mr. Sono entered announcing the sky had cleared completely; with conditions suggesting tomorrow’s summit would enjoy peerless weather, we should depart the inn at six to ascend Fugen.
Hearing this, my heart leapt.
Brimming with joy and anticipation, I slipped into bed, slept soundly through till five o’clock—awakening to find the sky flawlessly clear.

Having finished my morning ablutions and dressed in a carefree outfit—a yukata with a short coat over it, dark blue tabi socks, and straw sandals that let me sweat without concern—Mr. Sono appeared similarly attired and said with a smile, “We haven’t had weather this fine in ages.”
The foreigners still lay in their first sleep, leaving the cafeteria deserted. Clad in our peculiar garb, Mr. Sono and I barged into the dining hall, hastily finished breakfast with bread and ham and eggs or suchlike, had sandwiches made, gathered laborers, and valiantly (!) departed for Unzen’s First Peak.
The time was 6:00 AM on July 24, 1927.

sea of mist

I felt compelled to first provide an overview of Mount Unzen before beginning our ascent.
People casually refer to it as "Unzen," but Unzen-dake does not indicate a single mountain.
What is commonly called Unzen-dake collectively refers to Fugen-dake, Myōken-dake, Kunimi-dake, Kinugasa-yama, Nodake and others—though this representative name sometimes applies to its highest peak Fugen-dake, no actual mountain exists as a singular Unzen-dake.
Geologically speaking, Unzen-dake denotes a twin volcano comprising two volcanic groups: a mountain range formed through the overlapping of Nishi-Unzen Volcano—possessing three central volcanic cones (Kujindubeyama, Chiiwa-dake, and Jigoku Volcano) surrounded by outer rim mountains including Torikabuto-yama, Azuma-yama, Hachimaki-yama, Ya-dake, Kinugasa-yama, Nodake and Takaiwa-dake—and Higashi-Unzen Volcano with Fugen-dake as its central cone flanked by outer rim mountains like Kunimi-dake, Myōken-dake and Emaru-yama.
In eruption chronology, Nishi-Unzen Volcano was ancient while Higashi-Unzen Volcano emerged more recently.
Nishi-Unzen Volcano spanned broadly whereas Higashi-Unzen Volcano occupied limited terrain.
Geologists maintain that the hells we saw yesterday originated from one of Nishi-Unzen's central cones which lost its form through repeated explosions, creating what we now call Hell Basin.
And Fugen-dake—which I now intended to climb—constituted the central cone of this newer volcano.
We ascended along Myōken-dake's outer slope—the thirty-degree incline forming this cone's outer rim—keeping to Nodake's inner face from the old Nishi-Unzen Volcano's rim, advancing toward Nita Pass where Myōken and Nodake connect while skirting past the golf links.
The hot spring area lay two ri from Fugen's summit while thirty chō separated the links from Nita Pass according to annotations.

Since Nodake blocked this climbing path to the east and shielded us from the morning sun, we could proceed along a shaded path.
The invigorating ascent through the morning valley invigorated our bodies.
Along the roadside, small shrubs of Japanese deutzia still bloomed with clusters of pale pink flowers, while bell-shaped balloon flowers in bluish-purple and tiger tail grass were interspersed here and there among them.
Gakuutsugi adorned with white flowers added color among the shrubs.
The voices of small birds and bush warblers reached us incessantly.
If it had been May, this area—whether valley or rocky slope—would have been covered as far as the eye could see with vast colonies of various azaleas blooming in vibrant colors; however, now there were no flowers, save for scattered late-blooming red mountain azaleas found here and there.

We ascended thirty chō without breaking a sweat and arrived at Nita Pass, 1,080 meters (3,565 shaku) above sea level.
The air was not so chilly, and the morning sun had not yet emerged from the mountains.
Upon reaching the pass and first passing through the valley, we were suddenly met with a grand vista of marine splendor.
The scenery of Nita Pass is so exquisite that it is said one must not miss it even if they do not ascend to Fugen.
I would like to recommend the views from Nita Pass, Fugen’s summit, and Takaiwa-dake as Unzen’s Three Great Landscapes.
However, Unzen's beauty is not confined to these Three Great Landscapes—wherever a vista opens, splendor awaits. This stems partly from the marine beauty of the Shimabara Peninsula, for when such oceanic grandeur combines with mountainous majesty to heighten their mutual appeal, we must declare that rare indeed are peaks like Unzen among famous mountains.

The view from Nita Pass this morning was utterly splendid.
We now stood directly above the saddle of Myōken-dake, looking down upon the Akamatsu Valley three thousand shaku below.
Several ridges ran radiating outward toward the coastline, forming beautiful folds.
Akamatsu Valley is an explosion crater plain, but on its steep slopes grow red pines and firs, while mixed broadleaf trees such as chinquapin and oak display vivid green crowns in lush profusion.
Further still, their extremities form foothills that extend toward the coast in gentle slopes, where the Ariake Sea—on the opposite side from Chiiwa Beach—unfolds, radiating a deep blue hue.

The mountain fields of Hichiku entering view across the Ariake Sea in a single glance; Uto Peninsula jutting into the Ariake Sea like an ink-wash painting; Amakusa Archipelago extending from the peninsula's tip—how numerous were the islands floating like bonsai islets! Beyond the archipelago, the Yatsushiro Sea radiated a distinct emerald hue. But as far as the eye could see, the morning mist hung thickly across the entire expanse like a lavender-tinged curtain of thin silk. The Yatsushiro Sea was already more than half obscured, making the boundary between mist and sea indistinguishable. How can one compare the grandeur of this sea of mist? It was not merely a sea of mist blurred with a single stroke. The mountain ranges of Kyushu and the Amakusa Islands—all, whether near or far—uniformly had their bases vanish, with only their summits appearing within this mist. They were distinctly deep bellflower purple and navy blue.

In the sky beyond the distant, unexpected rear mountain group floated Sobagamine's summit.
Kuju's peak appeared slightly lower in the distance.
I could see Hideto; I could see Ichifusa.
Several of the Hyūga mountain ranges intermittently traced their dark ridges.
What particularly delighted me was clearly discerning, to the left, Aso's navy-blue upper half rising above Higo's dark mountain ridges, with smoke billowing toward it.
They said Kirishima's smoke would become visible if it cleared further, but today it remained unseen.
Furthermore, alongside the nearby Uto Peninsula, Mount Kinpō in Kumamoto caught the eye with its upper half most deeply tinged in bellflower purple.
Mikadodake too stood distinctly shaded in the same hue.
The solemn spectacle of these dozens of mountain and island peaks—their ridgelines overlapping as they played a silent symphony within the vividly endless sea of haze—appeared too pure and mystical to be perceived as reality.
Moreover, how a cumulus layer drawing a horizontal line at the mist sea's edge to our right seemed to further purify this vision.
If yesterday I had witnessed hell's tableau, what could this sight before me be now but paradise?
Had one painted the Twenty-Five Bodhisattvas amidst these cumulus clouds, it would have made a truly splendid raigōzu tableau of Amida's descent.

That autumn foliage season.

When I turned my gaze that had been fixed upon the sea, Fugen's precipitous peak—invisible until reaching the pass—suddenly materialized before me, blocking our path forward. Moreover, directly above us to the left rose Myōken's inner face—contrasting with the gentle slope of the outer face we had traversed—forming an approximately sixty-degree incline that became a sheer cliff of massive boulders as if cleaved by a blade, pressing down upon our heads. I stood captivated for a while longer by the sublime forms of Mount Fugen and Mount Myōken.

To ascend to Fugen from this pass, we had to descend into Azami Valley steeply plunging to the left from here.
Though it involved descending only to climb again, for a time we passed through a dense forest belt—a deep, secluded valley where trees enveloped the path for several chō, forming a tunnel through which not a ray of sunlight could pierce.
The descent area featured the greatest concentration of massive Japanese spindle trees, pines having vanished completely. Gradually increasing were deep-mountain dogwood species: maples, Kurobiitaya magnolias, Urihada maples, and Tokiwa maples—while between them flourished deciduous trees—Japanese boxwoods, Aburachan fatsias, Nobinoki magnolias, Kumashide dogwoods, Deutzia scabras, Nishikigi euonymus, Kuromoji lindera, lacquer trees, mountain wax trees, clove cherries, mountain hydrangeas, and Kamazuka deutzias. All being autumn foliage species. Adding to this tapestry, poison ivy vines and creepers bound trees and rocks throughout the terrain while mountain azaleas and Yōraku azaleas intermingled—one cannot help but marvel at how completely foliage plants blanketed the entire mountainside.

As Azami Valley is the remnant of an ancient crater，countless lava rocks of varying sizes lay scattered haphazardly along both sides of the path；shrouded in thick mist and weathered by time，they stood entirely cloaked in moss，while numerous trees had taken root atop these clustered lava formations．
The moss-covered lava rocks further bore beard-like thread-like growths，with bean vines and rock-clinging plants entwining about them until no bare stone remained visible—each one would make a magnificent specimen if placed in a garden．
As I proceeded through such valleys for some time，I discovered a small shrub bearing lapis lazuli-colored delicate flowers upon the lava rocks—it was none other than an unexpected mountain hydrangea．
As we ascended，the mountain hydrangeas grew more abundant，and in the small valleys branching from the roadside，there were places where hydrangeas bloomed in profusion，staining the valleys lapis lazuli-colored．
When I beheld these deeply secluded，mist-filled valleys stained with dreamlike hues，I was struck by an indescribable nostalgia．

Hydrangeas blooming faintly blue like a dream in valleys where mountain ridges loom.

I had not encountered mountain hydrangeas beyond this valley and Myōken until then—there at Myōken, where pale red deutzia formed colonies upon sunlit rocky slopes in one ravine while hydrangeas gathered in shaded groves of another, creating such ethereal beauty that I felt transported to a valley from legend—this I must record here.

Valleys dyed in Minazuki's hues where deutzia and hydrangeas bloomed—valleys of lapis lazuli.

When we ascended the valley and the peak turned again, we now emerged directly above Kishin Valley—one of Unzen’s two great valleys alongside Azami Valley, both being remnants of the same ancient crater.
Here at this vantage point, Kunimi-dake (4,420 shaku/1,339m) rose directly ahead, while to the left Myōken and to the right Emaru with the outer rim mountains stood arranged in a ring formation facing Fugen—their configuration became clearly apparent.
Because Kishin Valley plunged deeply between them, we proceeded along the rocky path for a time, gazing down upon this beautiful gorge enveloped in deciduous forest.
The path grew increasingly treacherous as we approached the summit. Emerging through a pure stand of massive kumashide trees twisted in dense formation, the world suddenly opened before us—and there we stood atop Fugen’s peak, 1,360 meters (4,488 shaku) high.

In terms of height, as a mountain it may not be worth mentioning—but oh, how majestic and exquisite its vista! That Unzen deserves its top ranking among mountains for scenery would be acknowledged by all who have once stood atop Mount Fugen's summit. Having praised Nita Pass's panorama as splendid, I now found myself at a loss to describe Fugen's vista. How could I convey both the joy of beholding this view and this realm of dharmic bliss? Nita's panorama—even were it considered the quintessence of landscape beauty—amounts to no more than one-third of Fugen's vista. Add another two-thirds to that measure and you have Fugen's prospect; thus does beauty's capacity triple. Nor should we overlook how viewing this same panorama from a summit one thousand shaku higher than Nita Pass inevitably heightens one's exhilaration.

Here, the eastern and western Unzen mountain ranges all bow in homage beneath my feet.
These mountain ranges further create dozens of subsidiary peaks and ridged folds, with Fugen itself branching into six summits that form deep creases—the pleasure of gazing down upon them at one's feet became the very bliss of transcending the mortal realm.
Those mountains and valleys, being entirely blanketed by autumn foliage plants, differed from monotonous coniferous forests of uniform faded hues; even now their leaves presented myriad nuances and tones that provided most agreeable visual stimulation.
If one could behold the grandeur of the entire valley ablaze with autumn colors from Fugen's summit, surrounded by the navy-blue sea, even imagining it set one's heart racing.
Indeed, Unzen’s autumn foliage stood unrivaled, certified as Japan’s finest.

Unparalleled Vista

I now stood facing northwest toward Myōken and Kunimi.
It was precisely the opposite of Nita Pass, which faces southeast.
Before me lay Chiiwa-nada.
Beyond the summit of Kunimi, Ōmura Bay could be seen.
The wireless station of Sasebo Naval Port came into clear view.
Beyond Nomo Peninsula, within the haze that seemed to merge with the Genkai Sea's horizon, the Goto Islands appeared faintly lined in the distance.
Beyond Kunimi and Emaru-yama, the Ariake Sea curved into view.
Beyond the Ariake Sea, the mountain wilds of Hizen could be seen, and Mount Tara rose most prominently nearby.
Thus stood Unzen's foremost peak, surrounded on all sides by sea save for the slender thread of Aino Isthmus - facing east, west, south, or north, it unfolded a peerless panoramic vista blessed with magnificent scenery, where nothing obstructed the eye's dominion.
This indeed constituted Unzen's supreme distinction that elevated it above numerous higher mountains—a distinction arising from the geographical alchemy between divided seas (the Genkai Sea, Yatsushiro Sea, Ōmura Bay, Chiiwa-nada, Amakusa Ocean, and Ariake Sea), island clusters beginning with the Amakusa archipelago, and mainland shores of endlessly contorted coastlines, all combining to forge this peerlessly kaleidoscopic terrain encircling the peak.
I repeat: I know of no other renowned peak like Unzen, where oceanic splendor and mountainous grandeur harmoniously fuse to form a vast panorama.

Many are the mountains renowned by name, but none can rival the grandeur of this mountain's prospect.

When it comes to sea views from this peak, even Yashima and Toba pale in comparison.

Gazing out across the sea of mist, only the indigo brows of eighty island mountains trace their outlines.

I had previously written of encountering thunderstorms when ascending Fugen, but the impression of its summit just before mountain rains arrive remains unforgettable.
The mountaintop lay submerged in a sea of thick fog where visibility ceased beyond a few paces, yet when fierce winds swept through—as though wielding a wizard's staff—the mists would momentarily part in patches, revealing fragments of the great ravines beneath: Azami Valley and Kishin Valley laid bare as if some mystical curtain had been drawn aside.
These too vanished in but an instant's breath.
Because azaleas bloomed resplendently upon Kunimi and Myōken, merely witnessing this phantasmal interplay of dense fog—where their vivid hues momentarily surfaced then dissolved within the void—left me feeling richly rewarded.

Particularly striking were the cream-colored mountain rhododendrons blooming serenely upon the rocky cliff where I stood at the summit. Enveloped in mist and glowing faintly white as though they might vanish at a touch, these blossoms seemed to embody such purity and divinity that they appeared not of this world.
How this rhododendron captivated my heart!
On the great rock wall of Fugen Shrine, slightly below the summit, these rhododendrons too bloomed in profusion; their appearance, half-concealed by mist as though begrudging any glimpse to those below.

Rhododendrons blooming faintly white upon mist-shrouded rocks, as though they might vanish at a touch.

Amidst the mist, the rock shadows where mountain rhododendrons kept blooming—how they lingered!

That had been my true sentiment at the time, and even now I cannot help feeling grateful—what fortune that the fog alone persisted without turning to rain until we left Fugen Shrine.

Descending from the summit some four or five chō away stood Fugen's stone shrine.
The sheer cliff behind it where rhododendrons had bloomed consisted of hornblende andesite resembling an erected folding screen measuring ninety shaku (approximately 27 meters) in height and one hundred twenty shaku (approximately 36 meters) in width.
The volcanic rocks composing the entire Unzen area were all this andesite, differing only in the varying quantities of phenocrysts such as feldspar, hornblende, and biotite contained within them.
A short distance from the shrine lay Fugen Pond, a small crater lake.
Around the pond grew many Japanese spiraea still clinging to their lingering blooms.
From here, parting through the deutzia and hydrangea woods and descending several hundred meters brought us to Hatoana—a Meireki 3 (1657) eruption crater forming a lava tunnel.
This grotesque hole measured 140 shaku (approximately 42 meters) in diameter and 35 shaku (approximately 11 meters) in depth, where even in summer ice clung tenaciously while cool winds brushed against one’s sides.
Though winter at Unzen is renowned for its rime ice, when cloaked in this frosty mantle Hatoana transforms into a veritable crystal palace—dozens of massive ice pillars hanging without gaps from its walls like cascading strings of jeweled curtains.

This valley area was intensely damp and gloomy—moss grew ever thicker over accumulated lava formations, "monkey's seat" lichen clung to tree branches, while cryptogamic plants of the Polypodiaceae family like Lepisorus thunbergianus, ferns, Metallogramma, and large ferns clustered in the ravines. In the faint gloom where not a speck of sunlight filtered through, broadleaf jack-in-the-pulpit spread their large leaves and mamushi grass grew unchecked—creating an atmosphere rather unsettling in its fecundity.
The damp, chilly air felt pleasant against my sweat-dampened skin.
Emerging from such places and passing before two or three wind vents blowing cold, icy gusts, when we reached the top of Kishin Valley, we rejoined the old path we had originally taken.
We spread out our sandwiches there and then proceeded along a narrow mountain path to ascend Myōken—a climb of merely eight chō.

Rocky Hill

We soon reached the summit of Myōken.
Myōken stands merely forty meters lower than Fugen, but its inner face lies precipitous; with Fugen looming before it and shrouded in dense forest, the peak affords only a southwestern vista.
In contrast to Fugen's complete envelopment by virgin forest, its outer face—a gentle slope confronting the golf links—discloses nothing but dense thickets of small shrubs.
The greater part of these shrubs consists of deep mountain Kirishima azaleas, whose profusion all the way to the very summit presents an aspect wholly distinct from Fugen.
Though azaleas generally refuse to grow beyond fifteen hundred shaku in elevation, here they persist in blooming up to the forty-four hundred shaku summit—a phenomenon utterly without parallel elsewhere.

Atop the moss-covered summit near Myōken’s small stone shrine imbued with elegant beauty, azalea bushes grew most abundantly; now balloon flowers bloomed profusely, while deutzia still showed lingering blossoms.
This area made an ideal spot for opening a picnic lunch; though lacking Fugen's sweeping vistas, the view from Nodake overlooking the golf links presented such clarity and beauty that it offered a grand panorama of the Western Unzen Volcano—centered on Kusenbu-dake and Chiiwa-dake with Torikabuto, Azuma, and Hachimaki forming its outer rim.

We descended from Myōken and this time went down to Nodake (3,500 shaku). Nodake was also a renowned spot for azaleas; with its nearly flat summit teeming with various species, it naturally took on the appearance of a whimsical garden. The area around Tomari-iwa's fantastical rocks—piled in cumulative wonder—formed yet another self-wrought garden. A small basin held water within its embrace, while clustered boxwoods and azaleas stood as though meticulously pruned into shape. Coupled with the exceptional vista overlooking both Ariake Sea and Amakusa Bay, this coalesced into a cherished otherworldly realm.

We returned to the Golf Links rest area at 1:00 PM.

I rested at the Kyushu Hotel until three or four in the afternoon, then in the evening took a walk from Hakumo Pond toward Hakumo Pasture with Mr. Ueno and Mr. Sono.
Hakumo Pond, nestled at the foot of beautiful Kinugasa Mountain, is a tranquil oil painting-like body of water possessing the serene environment befitting a highland lake.
Particularly, the bungalows rented by summering foreigners along its shore, where blonde women and young girls in stylish outfits of blue, yellow, and red played by the water's edge or rowed boats, evoked a distinctly foreign ambiance.
The pasture lay some distance away, and the sight of hundreds of sheep grazing on the mountainside being herded back within the fences by two guard dogs—front and rear—was like a living oil painting.

The next day, I ascended Takaiwayama, one of what I call Unzen’s Three Great Scenic Views. Foreign visitors called it Rocky Hill, and it had become so renowned among them that climbing it was considered essential for anyone visiting Unzen. Though standing at just 880 meters (2,890 shaku) above sea level—far lower than peaks like Fugen—it distinguished itself through its profusion of exposed massive boulders; moreover, as the southernmost mountain in the Unzen volcanic group, it offered superb views overlooking the Amakusa Islands at their closest proximity and held scenic distinction as the first place from which one could glimpse Shimabara’s Ninety-Nine Islands. Where its foothills met Yadake lay Tahara Plateau—an azalea field stretching beyond sight—and one could easily imagine how splendid Takaiwayama must appear in May when gazing down upon this floral expanse beneath its slopes.

The southwestern flank of this mountain facing Amakusa Bay stood as its most precipitous aspect, where fearsome rocks formed nearly perfect columnar joints that layered into cliffs, while atop the summit, numerous massive boulders towered skyward in a spectacle rivaling even Tsubasuyama in Yabakei.
What made this mountain particularly remarkable was how its slight isolation from the Unzen range unexpectedly provided an ideal vantage point for surveying those very peaks. From Takaiwayama's summit, one gained an exhilarating grand vista that captured in a single glance both the Unzen range and the beautiful foothills sloping gently toward Ariake and Shimabara.

Small Hell Hot Spring

On our return from Takaiwa, we stopped to rest at an inn called Sakakiya in Small Hell Hot Spring along the way and sampled its waters.
This place forms a secluded valley realm several hundred meters apart from other hot spring areas like Shin-yu and Furu-yu, and in contrast to Shin-yu’s modern facilities, it brims entirely with the atmosphere of a rustic hot spring inn.
As we were having lunch, a troupe of over twenty white-powdered rural entertainers—Hōkaibushi performers on seasonal work—paraded before the inn. They led three young girls whose faces were freshly painted chalk-white, dressed in merino yūzen summer kimonos, each carrying a tobacco tray. This too contributed to the hot spring inn's nostalgic atmosphere.
That very night, I must add how this same Hōkaibushi troupe also made their way to Shin-yu, where at each hotel's porch they had young girls perform traditional dances like Kappore and Fukagawa. The foreign guests would swarm to watch, and upon each dance's conclusion toss silver coins into the hat circulated by the girls—a scene identical to those witnessed at casinos and kursaals in foreign summer resorts, which particularly caught my interest.

This hell consisted of but a single location, yet its scale and abundant hot springs ranked it foremost in Unzen. Though a communal bathhouse, its hot waterfall installations and cleanliness rendered it eminently suitable for therapeutic purposes.

Mr. Ueno joined us for the meal, along with Elder Honda Chikamoto—a founding figure of this hot spring resort accomplished in poetry and calligraphy, known as the originator of Unzen pottery, who since turning seventy-three at the year's start had gained renown for his snow-white head now burgeoning with copious black hair.

After dining, we set out with Elder Honda added to our party to visit Suwa Pond, situated three ri distant.

Kinugasa Mountain

A motor road ran to Suwa Pond, but as it remained unused, our car pressed through thick overgrowth as we proceeded. The pond was Shimabara Peninsula's largest lake, situated at an elevation of 600 shaku; its charm enhanced by being three interlinked lakes surrounded by verdant greenery on all sides. Within the pine forest stood Suwa Shrine's aged sanctuary, while the pond itself boasted rental boats and fishing facilities—possessing all the qualities needed to become an excellent summer playground with just a bit more development.

After resting in Suwa Shrine's forest shade and returning from Suwa Pond, that evening we ascended Kinugasa Mountain to observe sunset over Chiiwa Beach.
This mountain—housing a meteorological observatory built through funds from Mainichi donations—stood as a beautiful peak enhancing the hot spring district's scenic charm.
Its inverted-hat shape blanketed by red pines closely resembled namesake Kinugasayama forming Kinkaku-ji Temple's backdrop in Kyoto.
Rising to a manageable 860 meters, it featured a two-ri promenade encircling its base.
We reached its viewpoint rock and awaited sunset.
This panorama too ranked among Unzen's most celebrated landscapes.

When standing facing Chiiwa Beach, the gorge plunging deeply beneath one's feet was Yamagō Valley, formed by the foothills of Kinugasa Mountain and Myōken-dake. Where Yamagō Valley met its end stood Tomitsu's Saruboyama, its foothills giving way to Bentenzaki Cape—scattered with red pines like brushstrokes from a Tosa-style painting—jutting resolutely into the bay. Beyond Myōken’s long foothills, peaks like Chiiwa-dake, Azuma-dake, and Kusenbu-dake loomed hazily as dusk approached, while across the Ariake Sea to the right, Taradake traced its beautiful silhouette. Turning my gaze to the left, from Hayasaki Strait across to Amakusa Bay, the shadows of countless islands—large and small—gradually melted into the seamless expanse where sea and sky blended into a single hue. The daytime chorus echoed through the valley, offering in unison their final tribute to the day.

As the setting sun approached the mountain ridges of Sonogi Peninsula, half the sky gradually tinted crimson.
This crimson cast its reflection upon the lingering horizontal clouds over Amakusa Bay on the opposite side.
The white sails of fishing boats scattered across Chiiwa Beach shone golden throughout in that moment.
It was truly a beautiful and majestic natural spectacle.
The foreigners who call Takaiwayama "Rocky Hill" apparently refer to Kinugasa Mountain as "Sunset Hill" as well, but I cannot help but acknowledge how intimately they commune with nature, always pioneering the discovery of scenic vantage points and skillfully capturing their essence.
When reflecting on how most Japanese have been unexpectedly indifferent to landscapes—with none until recently extolling Unzen's beauty, leaving foreigners alone to monopolize its scenic splendor for twenty to thirty years—one cannot help but feel profound remorse.

Great Camphor Forest

The next day.

Since the great camphor forest at the base of Yamagō Valley—which we had looked down upon yesterday from Kinugasa’s viewpoint rock—was slated to become a forest park, today we set out early in the morning with Mr. Ueno as our guide and Mr. Sono, making three in total, traveled by car halfway along Koba Road before descending into a steep ravine.
At the place where we had nearly finished descending the valley was the Great Camphor Forest.
Covering an area of just over three chōbu, the camphor trees stretched skyward exactly as described by Mr. Ueno—the hunter having noted how their lofty canopies placed small birds beyond shooting range—forming an almost pure stand where only sparse shafts of sunlight pierced through to illuminate knee-deep drifts of fallen leaves. Every lava rock lying between the trees lay blanketed in moss, ferns sprouting from crevices while jack-in-the-pulpits unfurled broad leaves, until this secluded realm coalesced into a shadowy, primeval otherworld.

Hearing the sound of a mountain stream, we descended toward it—when suddenly a pheasant startled us, darting sideways through the trees—a moment of amusement amidst our journey. The stream was narrow but its waters clear; the area lay strewn with massive overlapping rocks. Amid camphor trees mingled with towering hackberries stood a dimly lit clearing, where precisely as envisioned there was a small mountain deity shrine adorned with fox-shaped latticework. Exiting the camphor forest, we found Myōken’s foothills forming sheer cliffs looming close on one side, while Kinugasa’s foothills extended gently to create a beautiful slope on the other. This compelled acknowledgment that when encompassing the entire area, it made a truly suitable candidate site for a forest park. I heard plans were in place for a mountain railway to pass through this valley, and surely the day would not be far off when this place would be counted among Unzen's celebrated sights.

In the valley's depths stood five-hundred-branched great camphors ranked like pillars—within Shizuma's Forest, pheasants found refuge.

Through crackling leaves we trod the Great Camphor Forest's floor, where filtered sunlight waned to pallid traces.

Kōbama Hot Springs

We made our way through the camphor forest and descended toward Kōbama, only to find ourselves intercepted by people who had come up from Kōbama in scattered groups while searching for us during their climb.
These people first showed me the massive Oni-iwa rock in the fields—said to accommodate 120 tatami mats—then had me board a car along the Kōbama Highway to view the statue of Lieutenant Colonel Tachibana at the bayhead, who gave his name to Tachibana Bay in Chiiwa Beach, before finally revealing the beautiful Chiiwa Pine Grove.
After being kept waiting at the pine grove for an extended period, we were then boarded onto the Kōbama Railway.
This small railway running a mere five ri between Kōbama and Aino connects with the Shimabara Railway, making it theoretically convenient for ascending Mount Unzen; however, with trains departing at intervals exceeding an hour and a half, it proves impractical for regular use. Moreover, even after disembarking at Kōbama Station, one must still walk eighteen chōbu to reach the hot spring resort—what an utterly inconvenient railway!
Yet as I previously noted, the scenery along its route remains truly without equal.

When we arrived at Iseya in Kōbama, it was announced that a welcome party for me would be held there.
Having descended the treacherous path of Yamagō Valley and been shown around Oni-iwa Rock and the pine grove, I—now drenched in sweat—first sought to test the waters with a hot spring bath.
The hot springs gush forth from about six locations with considerable abundance, but their distinction lies in having remained under the private ownership of the Honda clan—local magnates who have served as hereditary Masters of the Baths—to this very day, setting them apart from other hot springs.
In contrast to Unzen's milky white waters, these hot springs are colorless and transparent; with clean bathing facilities, they offer a comfortable bathing experience.
Here are over forty inns, and a wood fee system like that of Beppu Hamawaki is in operation.
While Unzen Hot Springs welcomes many foreign visitors—though its historic baths cater exclusively to Japanese patrons—Kōbama thrives on domestic tourism, existing with Unzen in symbiotic interdependence.
Using Kōbama as a base for exploring Unzen is not a bad choice.

Ninety-Nine Islands

I was driven back to Unzen by Mayor Honda, the master of Iseya Inn, Elder Tsuda, and others at three o'clock.
Then, waiting until a little past four when shade had begun to form, I bid farewell to Kyushu Hotel and descended to Shimabara with Mr. Sono.
Yet this was no parting from Unzen.
Though securing lodgings in famously scenic Shimabara formed one objective, my true purpose lay in viewing the Fugen Shinshō lava flow most conveniently reached from there.

The Unzen-Shimabara automobile road had been under construction when I visited five years prior, so until then one had to endure the considerably arduous Fugen descent to reach Shimabara.
This automobile road was Unzen's most splendid route, winding grandly around Nodake's foothills with gentle gradients and curves ideal for driving—though in exchange, what would have been less than three ri on the old mountain path now became a six-ri detour.

We arrived at Nampūrō just before six after passing through Shimabara’s narrow streets, where the elderly proprietress and old acquaintances welcomed us with hospitality transcending business concerns—how profoundly the travelers' hearts must have relaxed.
From the second floor of this building—which felt more like a villa than an inn—the view across the Ariake Sea encompassed Taradake in Hizen and the mountains of Higo, while the radiant scenery overlooking the Ninety-Nine Islands proved more than sufficient to soothe the traveler’s heart.
After first bathing and changing into yukata, we set out in the prepared pleasure boat with the inn’s master as our guide, rowing toward the Ninety-Nine Islands in the evening dusk.

The Ninety-Nine Islands are new archipelagos formed just over 130 years ago when Mayuyama, the easternmost peak of the Higashi-Unzen volcanic group, erupted in the fourth year of Kansei (1792), blasting the mountain’s eastern half into the sea.
This Mayuyama eruption had caused a great earthquake and tsunami, resulting in unprecedented devastation throughout recorded history—with casualties recorded as over 28,000 people—yet if what remains as its memorial is these Ninety-Nine Islands, how profoundly beautiful they stand as islands born from such dearly purchased sacrifice.
While most of these islands were submerged beneath the sea or shattered by waves, among those that still survive—some spanning two or three chōbu in size, others mere rocky fragments—we can count over twenty beautiful islets where black pines grow in fine profusion.
The scene of those islands arrayed across the calm Shiranui Sea against the verdure of their parent mountain Mayuyama is truly the Matsushima of the Western Sea.

From Unzen's descending motor road one could glimpse only a few southernmost islets of the Ninety-Nine Islands, while from Nampūrō's direction appeared merely several northern ones; yet upon entering Shimabara town—a deeply indented harbor offering no vantage points—to properly view the Ninety-Nine Islands required absolute dependence on boat access.
Only by steering a vessel into the archipelago's very midst could one first experience the islands' true beauty.
Though I longed to describe these Ninety-Nine Islands at length, Unzen being my principal subject compels me to forgo such digression here.

We, in an indescribable mood of boating pleasure, threaded our way among the islands where oar sounds softened and dusk deepened into pale blue gloom before returning to Nampūrō.

How clear the sea beneath Mayuyama! How thickly grow the pines on Ninety-Nine Islands!

How they cast shadows upon Shimabara's still sea—though I gaze endlessly, never sated.

Ah, how wistful—the small boat rowing through Shiranui Sea's evening tide among Ninety-Nine Islands.

Nampūrō's Sunrise

How splendid! The great crimson morning sun—as if one could grasp it in hand—emerged from the sea.

I was fortunate to have stayed twice at Nampūrō—renowned for its splendid sunrises—and on both occasions been able to witness magnificent sunrises.

Lava flow

After finishing breakfast before six o'clock, we departed the inn by automobile at exactly six with laborers in tow, accompanied by the town assistant mayor who had come to guide us, the master of the inn, and Mr. Sono.
Our purpose was to see the Shinshō lava flow.

This lava flow had erupted simultaneously with Mayuyama's great explosion in the fourth year of Kansei (1792), spewing from where Fugen's mid-slope Iidō-iwa—the ancient lava flow from the third year of Meireki (1657)—had exhausted itself, then coursing along Anasakodani Valley to reach Senbonmatsu Plain; its meandering path was said to extend thirty chō. I wished to witness this fearsome, still-vivid state of the lava flow.

Guidebooks proved rather unreliable things indeed—according to them, this lava flow having been a fresh eruption of barely over 130 years meant weathering processes had yet to occur and consequently no plants could thrive there. Thus I had imagined I would merely witness an utterly barren accumulation of raw, vivid lava, and had come harboring no scenic expectations whatsoever.
Few among Unzen climbers made special effort to visit this lava flow, and even those who happened to come merely gazed up at its terminus from Senbonmogi before departing. Yet through my own entry into the interior of this very lava flow, I discovered it to be one of the most magnificent ravines that those seeking to truly see and know Unzen must absolutely ascend.

From Shimabara town to the municipal sports field—a distance of less than one ri—ran a splendid automobile road, but from there to the terminus of the Senbonmogi lava flow, one had to walk over a dozen chō. We ascended a gentle slope and finally drew near the lava flow. At that point, the lava flow spanned sixty to seventy ken in width, reaching approximately four hundred shaku in height before terminating at a forty- to fifty-degree angle. Here stood a sheer lava cliff—the lower accumulated layers resembling stone walls, while upper sections bristled with enormous lava masses whose immense size defied comprehension of how they had flowed there. Though pines grew atop some lava formations to create mildly interesting scenery, as cliff landscapes they remained ordinary—their sole interest lying in recalling how this had once been a meandering thirty-chō river of molten fire. Moreover, viewing from here alone made it impossible to envision the lava flow's entirety; feeling somewhat disappointed, I resolved to climb along its path hoping to find at least one vantage point where I might behold its grand spectacle.

There ran an old mountain path—merely a woodcutter’s trail ascending from Shimabara to Fugen—where ascending one and a half ri would bring one to Fugen’s summit. We climbed about ten chō and looked, but between this mountain path and the lava flow lay a valley thick with miscellaneous trees, and as the lava flow ran high like a horse’s back all along, within our field of vision only its elevated rim remained visible. Moreover, pine trees grew along the mountain path, obstructing the view, and no matter how far we went, it seemed impossible to obtain a grand view of the lava flow. However, many of the towering lava rocks bore splendidly gnarled pines with excellent form; the lava itself had thoroughly weathered to a purplish-brown hue and lay cloaked in moss—bearing no resemblance whatsoever to the raw, reddish lava I had imagined. To me, the scenery within this lava flow did not seem like a desolate, barren landscape; moreover, I thought that only by venturing inside might I first encounter its grand spectacle—so while searching for an entry point, I climbed several more chō to investigate.

The Town Assistant Mayor guiding us, the Master of Iseya Inn, Mr. Sono, and the laborers had all traversed this mountain path along the lava flow numerous times, yet not one among them had ever ventured inside the lava flow's interior.
Hearing that not a single person had ever deliberately entered only further piqued my curiosity.
Within the lava flow, I finally found a suitable entrance; after the laborers had cleared away the vegetation, we followed behind them across the valley and climbed up into the very heart of the molten expanse.

A grand bonsai landscape

Suddenly, a grand scene appeared before my eyes like an illusion—I cannot forget the impression of that moment.
What a magnificent, yet simultaneously exquisite view it was!
The lava flow was not the simple horseback-shaped formation I had imagined when viewing it from afar; its width extended two or three chō across at broad points, and rather than flowing evenly, its central portion had sunk deeply, forming another valley altogether within the lava flow itself.
This great lava flow snakes along, filling the vast ravine of Anasakodani Valley—with its dense trees—one level higher; spanning thirty chō, its entire length unobstructed, the grand spectacle that could be taken in at a single glance was magnificent in itself.

Gazing upward, this new lava flow—winding through the valley like a great serpent as it ascended toward Fugen's summit—connected at its terminus to the black-brown old burn from Meireki 3's eruption. This deeper stratum of ancient lava revealed steep inclines across seven or eight chō, the old and new flows interlinked as they meandered through flanking depths of azure verdure, appearing to orchestrate a grand march of colossal boulders.
It must indeed be called a truly astonishing spectacle.

However, what further astonished and delighted my eyes was the beauty of nature nurtured amidst the lava flows.
When we entered this lava flow, the mass of lava proved far from raw; though composed of andesite like elsewhere, it contained abundant biotite mixed with hornblende and relatively fragile structures—particularly with tuff intermingled—resulting in unexpectedly rapid weathering and erosion such that every single rock was cloaked in moss.
Moreover, upon these rocks beyond the moss grew clusters of single-leaf plants, with bean vines and woody creepers twining about; wax trees, dwarf deutzia, round-leaf deutzia, and dwarf pines clung to the stone in twisted forms, while azaleas most abundantly dotted the rocky intervals, spreading low without vertical growth yet thriving densely.
Moreover, seeing how beard lichen hung like wisps from the branches of dwarf pines and small shrubs made one imagine how mist-filled this valley must be.
These small shrubs may well be said to be nurtured by the mist upon soil-less rocks.

Among these plants, what delighted me most was discovering yellow-flowered rhododendrons—which in Unzen grow only at Fugen's summit—taking root among rocks everywhere here, thriving alongside azaleas. As I examined each rock in turn, beyond those shrubs grew lion's head ferns and other fern varieties in shaded areas—squirrel's foot ferns clinging to surfaces, rock pines taking hold, spring orchids scattered abundantly throughout. This was truly a garden's perfected realm, a veritable treasury of horticultural wonders. Thus each lava formation stood as a magnificent natural bonsai stone, and the thirty-chō lava flow indeed formed an astonishing grand bonsai landscape.

Across this grand bonsai landscape, I faced Mayuyama's splendid peaks, while in the Shiranui Sea stretching below Mayuyama's skirts, the Ninety-Nine Islands floated like a painting.
Unzen has valleys such as Azami Valley and Kijin Valley that are beautiful when viewed from above, but no valley contains such beauty within its own interior as this one.
While Mr. Sono—the park superintendent known as Unzen's living encyclopedia—stood astonished at seeing this scenery for the first time, the Master of Iseya Inn from Shimabara and the Assistant Mayor alike found themselves captivated by this valley they too were beholding for the first time in their lives.
When I considered that this beautiful lava flow had until now only been glimpsed from the outside, kept secret and unopened to anyone, my fortune and joy at having discovered this virgin valley were immense.
Mr. Sono immediately proposed designating this as an Unzen scenic site and erecting a marker post at the entrance we had penetrated. With the name "Shinshō" being too prosaic, there emerged a suggestion to call it Yūhō Valley after your name, but I politely declined and instead proposed Taibikei Valley since it faces Mayuyama.

Countless rock-clinging pines and stones I long to transplant into my garden.

My joy at discovering this beautiful virgin valley knows no equal.

We spread out the cider and boxed meals we had brought here, rested awhile, then returned to Shimabara. Yet even as I rejoiced that this valley might be added to Shimabara's noted sites through my exploration, I could not suppress an unfounded dread—that this exquisite natural beauty—the rhododendrons clustering among rocks, azaleas, fern mosses, not to mention the artfully gnarled dwarf pines clinging to stones and spring orchids—might fall prey to thoughtless climbers' spades.
Should any explore this valley through my writings, I earnestly pray they remember nature's preservation.

As I needed to catch the twelve o'clock train to Nagasaki, when I returned to the inn at eleven, I hurriedly changed my clothes, ate a quick meal, and was seen off by the elderly proprietress as I departed Shimabara.