Pathway to Japanese Literature

Author: Tetsutaro Numai

This is the travel diary from when we ascended the Jikkawa River valley from Hinoemata Village in Minami-Aizu District of Iwashi Province, crossed Kuroiwa Mountain (2,163 meters) that lies on the border of three provinces atop the rocky wilderness, and descended Yoichi Valley (Koda Pond Valley), a tributary of the upper reaches of the Kinugawa River.

1. From Nikko to Hinoemata

It would naturally be assumed by anyone that Kuroiwa Mountain could be reached by ascending Kurozawa with Kawamata Hot Spring in the Kinugawa Gorge as a base—and indeed, in terms of time, this would undoubtedly be the most convenient route—but approaching it from the Jikkawa Valley had been my hope for many years.
For this, there was no choice but to make Hinoemata Village our starting point; however, the most direct route to that remote mountain village was via Nikko, Kawamata Hot Spring, and Hikibas Pass.

At 11:00 PM on October 28, the ninth year of Taisho (1920), we boarded a northbound train from Ueno.
The train was so crowded we couldn’t sleep a wink, so Yoshizo Iwanaga and Toru Nagoshi—who had become my constant companions by then—and I passed the time playing cards.
We disembarked at Utsunomiya; the four hours until dawn at six o'clock became an unexpected free accommodation.

At last reaching Nikko, we took the tram to Umagaeshi only to find the autumn foliage there at its peak—thus abandoning any thought of venturing deeper to warm sake in forest glades.
Fudosaka Slope grew familiar with each crossing, leaving us unperturbed by tourists’ trivial questions.
Delays at Tsurugamine and Gorobei Tea House meant it was nearly 1:00 PM when we devoured trout tempura bowls at Chugu Shrine.
We had divided tents, blankets, and cold-weather gear among three rucksacks, their weight proving formidable.
As clear skies over Shirakane clouded, we rested at Dragon Head Falls before pushing through Red Marsh Plain to that detestable sandy path from Three Pines toward Koto Marsh.
Reaching Sanno Pass twenty minutes past three, irritation surged through us as we climbed straight up the utility pole clearance.
Atop the pass’s meadow, Toru Nagoshi gulped whiskey while we joined him in gazing—against all urgency—at Nantai, Taro, Omanako, and Sannoboshi’s peaks against the dusk.
Our legs, intending to reach Nishizawa Kanezan, turned leaden as we descended along iron cables through darkening switchbacks.
When I’d last come here, something like an inn had stood—now vanished through hard times—leaving a roadside woman lamenting scarce provisions for travelers.
Blamed on office rations per capita, yet the landlady still ushered us inside to warm soup.
Having eaten our fill, we thanked her and left around eight.
The Eighteenth-Night Moon bathed three figures on the mountainside path in dreamlike silver.
Even Taro Mountain’s eerie face then seemed saintly.
Thus we reached Kawamata Hot Spring at five past ten.
Our late supper—doe soup from yesterday’s catch and Temma grilled meat—savored, we retired at 12:15 AM.

The 30th.
A single night’s restful sleep had entirely healed even unaccustomed fatigue.
Even so, our departure was delayed until 9:00 AM.
After tying our straw sandal laces and being treated to Bandai mochi by the inn, we bid farewell to Professor Keigetsu Omachi, who was scheduled to depart that afternoon for a one-night excursion to explore Kinunuma.
To the east of the hot spring, in Sankenyashiki—a cluster of three houses—a new government lodge had been built.
After crossing one stream and beginning to part from the gorge path, below lay a hot spring inn and a cold stream, while in the western sky, the plains near Kinunuma could be seen.
When we climbed a bit further and emerged onto Kayado-daira, behind us stood arrayed in a row the mountains of Nyobo, Taishaku, Omanako, and Taro.
The beauty of Nyobo in particular was beyond comparison to when viewed from the front.
The broad leaves of beech and oak had already fallen, leaving only scattered remnants of maple leaves as red as blood to catch the eye.
In summer, this would have been a sweltering climb, but on an autumn journey, one need not even drink parting water. We ascended a mountainside path through bamboo grass where nagi trees stood visible to the left, and upon passing Heigoroyama, soon found ourselves engulfed in coniferous forest, the terrain’s undulations growing scarcely noticeable.
We arrived at Toriyaba Hut around noon.
This was a saddle located about ten *chō* beyond Heigoroyama; it was said that once snow accumulated, coming via Sabisawa would be quicker.
The hut’s owner—an old woman—along with a middle-aged woman who had come to help and her daughter would light a fire to prepare meals for us, roasting small birds.
The view encompassed the main sections from Nyobo Mountain to Nantai Mountain, with Onsen-dake’s vicinity visible.
Nyobo Mountain’s Nunobiki Waterfall also appeared shining white.
It seemed it had recently rained in this area, and the women informed us that tonight might bring snow as well.

At 1:10 PM, we departed and climbed a slope, where an elderly man sporting a topknot came from the opposite direction. This man also managed the Toriyaba hut beyond Horoku-daira (an area at 1,892 meters) and was on his way to visit the neighboring Toriyaba hut, he said. When we mentioned that the women were returning to Kawamata, he turned on his heel and took the lead ahead of the three of us. And despite saying it was fine, he took Toru Nagoshi’s pack and strode briskly ahead. From the descent of Horoku-daira, looking northward, two black peaks of Daikura Takayama (called only Daigura in Hinoemata) were visible. The old man’s hut was situated in a place that seemed to straddle the boundary between the source stream of Musuna Valley and Kurozawa. This place did not seem to have as much difficulty with water as the previous hut did.

When we went out from the hut to the opposite Toriyaba, the first view of Hikibas Pass could be obtained from that elevated spot.
The Nikko Mountains encircled us like a folding screen, and the range extending from there through Tsubasusa, Monmiyama, and Kinunumayama to Kuroiwa Mountain formed a somber assembly cloaked in black.
The summit of Kuroiwa was regrettably veiled in clouds, yet its imposing grandeur and the Kurozawa Valley below pressed upon us with overwhelming profundity.
This was my third time coming to this pass, though summer rains had always robbed me of this view before.
As I gazed at the mountains, a flock of cormorants that had burst forth from Musuna Valley became effortlessly caught in the bird nets.
The old man walked along inspecting each by tilting their necks upward—a sight that struck me as pitiable.

When they had lingered for about an hour, a cold misty rain began falling swiftly.
Their departure came at 2:40.
The rain soon let up.
With no more significant ascents remaining and clear trail markings, they reached Hikibas Pass's summit fifteen minutes later.
The entire climb up to this point had been relentlessly steep.
Upon arrival, they found an absurdly wide summit.
There stood a recently made path branching left, its direction carved into a tree trunk: “Left: Miyagawa Trail; Right: Hinoemata Trail.”
Other conflicting markers added unexpected confusion, but ultimately turning right led to the mountain pass while left went to the Miyagawa Trail (possibly a miswriting for Jikkawa Trail?)—they later learned this latter route descended past Sonbeyama to where Jikkawa River’s upper reaches meet Sulfur Valley and Akakura Valley.
A short way along the pass lay traces of a newly built hut.
The alpine plant collection prohibition signs that once stood here had vanished completely.
By 3 PM, daylight descent to the village became impossible.
Still believing they could reach the Mausaka River confluence marked at 1,207 meters, they pressed downward, finally crossing the valley’s innermost bridge at 4:15.
After progressing several hundred meters more, they forded another stream.
Until reaching Hatakegoya hut, two or three more ambiguous spots threatened missteps.
The greatest challenge came near Yakesawa’s confluence, where an unnamed waterfall cascaded down the right-hand mainstream.
They edged across bordering rocks but growing darkness—and uncertainty about higher path routes—caused significant delay.
Finishing leftover rations by lantern light beneath glittering stars, they passed through the field hut and glimpsed Komagatake ahead—moonlit proof of Hinoemata’s proximity—before informing their companions.
They entered Hinoemata’s Maruya Inn at 8:40 PM.

II. Ascending the Jikkawa River

On the evening we arrived in Hinoemata, as it was the village’s annual mountain festival, the rustic twang of shamisen and boisterous popular ballads continued clamoring late into the night.
This likely contributed to why—despite having made prior arrangements—neither guides nor laborers could be found anywhere.
The primary reason was the village office’s demand for laborers in road construction below the village, but even beyond that, others who had been granted mountain clearance permits to fell trees could not spare half a day’s rest until their deadlines expired.
When we sent for Denzaburo Hirano, whom we had taken along two years prior, he pleaded busyness preparing for winter seclusion.
In the end, after waiting through the following day, our vigil proved fruitless.
At this point, we reluctantly persuaded the innkeeper’s son—a man who until recently had served as a village office clerk—to carry our baggage at least as far as the confluence of Sulfur Valley and Akakura Valley along the Jikkawa Trail.
Beyond that point, we had no choice but to shoulder everything ourselves.
Never before had we faced such dire shortages of guides and laborers; it left us thoroughly depleted.

We departed on November 1st at 8:15 AM.
The innkeeper’s son went ahead to meet with an old man named Hirano Shigetaro—who maintained a hut deep in the Jikkawa Valley crafting bentwood containers—and joined him.
The old man carried rice on his back and suspended an oil can, declaring he would be reentering the mountains for some time yet.

Though the skies that had been clear for days now looked somewhat ominous, for us who had idled away the entire day, walking brought supreme joy.
The old man obliged our questions with various fascinating tales.
After passing Kirinte and crossing the bridge, we advanced about ten *chō* (roughly 1.1 kilometers) before Kamiyonakiko-sawa came cascading down from our left.
This vicinity offered the finest view of Mount Hiuchigatake; from its twin uplifted summits—where one entered soft green thickets of dwarf pines and bamboo grass into Kuroki’s dense forest—we could also glimpse a high waterfall invisible from Lake Oze.
Having crossed to the valley’s left bank and traversed Sulfur Valley again, I took a small descending path to the left. The Jikkawa Forest Road branches off from the Numata Highway much higher up, descending slightly above Michiyuki-sawa Confluence, though landslides now blocked passage.
To the path’s right lay Teuyonbata, beyond which stretched Akahokke-daira.
Old Man Shigetaro called out to two or three houses intending to stop by, but finding most empty, he continued down to the riverbank without pause.
The ford at Michiyuki-sawa Confluence proved no great challenge, but upon immediately shifting to Jikkawa’s bank and advancing several hundred meters more, we crossed to the left bank.
The river’s scenery held no marvels.
In Minami-Aizu’s mountain depths one finds no resplendent autumns like those of Yashu and Joshu; in valleys thick with black trees, only water’s murmur and human gasps reached our ears.

Daijō-sawa came cascading down from the valley’s right bank. The old man informed us that above it lay a kindred expanse to Oze-daira called Daijō Tashiro. Shortly thereafter, as we approached Yahitsutaira, the stream abruptly narrowed—though only for a brief stretch—and both banks rose vertically to a height of several meters. This place was called Deto Hiyodori. The forest road crawled up along its right side and, as it began to slope gently downward, the expanse of Yahitsutaira—reputed to cover an area of thirty-six chōbu—unfolded before us. The right-leaning foothills abruptly curved back, peering into this basin nestled between mountains, their slopes cloaked in a beautiful broad-leaved forest so lush it rivaled June’s fresh verdure. And if the river branches left and people proceed right, the path runs roughly through the center of the plain, where thickets enveloping us bear autumn silverberries scattered like coral beads. The abundance of autumn olive berries was a defining feature of this plain; had I become Major Jikkawa or one of his retainers, I likely would have named it Autumnberry Plain (Gumidaira). Thus, prompted by the wild-flavored taste that filled the air, we settled ourselves in the center of the plain at 10:50 AM.

Filled with unexpected tree fruits, we set out again at eleven o'clock.
Upon crossing a stream, the red coral-like berries gave way to beech trees, and bamboo grass began to dominate the undergrowth.
There had been talk of a Benzaiten shrine in that area, but since it was said to no longer exist, we suppressed our curiosity and pressed onward.
Along the roadside lay two or so traps, crafted by bending bamboo leaves to catch rabbits.
The plain finally ended, and crossing the foothills extending from Oeyama, we zigzagged down to the confluence of Kurotake-sawa.
With twenty minutes still remaining until noon, we spread out the lunchboxes we had brought along.

The mountain stream had a slightly greater drop than near Akahokke, at times splashing down from ash-colored rocks.
Yet even with some challenging sections both upstream and downstream, the Jikkawa River maintained an unassuming demeanor.

We departed at 12:30 PM.
Maruya’s son shouldered the empty pack ladder and returned from the opposite bank.
We parted from him, crossed the log bridge, and proceeded along the right bank’s forest road.
At lunchtime, the barometer showed a temperature of 11.5 degrees and an air pressure of 654 mmHg, but the weather had indeed been threatening to turn foul since morning.
Our spirits, oppressed within the narrow valley, were not without a heart that yearned for something rare.

At such a time appeared the spectacle of Iri Hiyodori.
It lay directly beneath Takuhakusan Mountain—a succession of waterfalls cascading through fissures in hard rock strata like upturned tails of white horses, tier upon tier.
From the forest road only the lowest fall and part of its upper course were visible, but descending briefly into thickets revealed several zigzagging streams tumbling down in staggered clarity.
The lower riverbed bore barrel-shaped hollows carved by their momentum before vanishing beneath downstream woods.
Toru Nagoshi and I circled tirelessly trying to frame this panorama on film, yet obstinate trees blocked our view; even where unobstructed, the falls refused linear alignment for our lenses.
The total height we estimated at less than one hundred shaku*.

After spending about thirty minutes exploring this way, we resumed our upstream journey along the right bank and soon descended to the Akayasu-sawa Confluence. That stream held water no less abundant than the main river. The sight of it carving deep into the mountain’s bosom was a pleasant one. From there, the path along the right bank began climbing gradually as conifers grew more numerous. I’ve since forgotten the exact spot, but along the forest road stood a large beech tree—likely marked by mountain laborers—its trunk carved with their names and life-sized linga.

At 2:00 PM, where the valley’s left bank steepened as the stream curved from right to left, we came alongside Zaru Falls.
The waterfall cascaded smoothly over rounded, stepped rocks—it was said to be named for its resemblance to an upturned sieve.
The mountains along the entire left bank of the valley were called Nenakusa-kura, and facing Zaru Falls, a thin waterfall like lightning cascaded high on its flank.
The forest road now crossed to the left bank; using a vine dangling from a rocky outcrop, we descended to the riverbed and forded across the monolithic rock above Zaru Falls.
The water depth reached about ankle level.
After climbing roughly a hundred meters up the left bank and walking several hundred meters through tiered woods, we realized the left side had opened again and the valley had completed a full turn.
The anticipated rain had already begun drizzling earlier; slipping on the wet mountain path as we descended leftward, we reached Old Man Shigetaro’s hut just past three o’clock.

Old Man Shigetaro’s hut stood about one chō below the confluence of Sulfur Valley and Akakura-sawa, on a small ledge some two ken above the left bank’s water surface.
The old man had long dwelled in this valley but had only recently begun manufacturing bentwood items; since the material for these items was tauhi, he explained that once it ran out, he would venture further into the mountains.
In front of the hut, shaved wood chips lay scattered all the way to the stream’s edge.
The rain was growing increasingly fierce, and with no laborers available, we decided to stay at this hut despite the early hour.
While the old man went to gather firewood, we wrapped ourselves in rain gear, clambered over rocks, crossed trees, and descended to investigate below.
Directly beneath the hut, the valley lost its gravel beds, both banks rising as sheer cliffs while every descending stream formed a waterfall at its drop-off point.
Though the main stream formed an unbroken chain of waterfalls, we could descend a hundred or two hundred meters from the hut relatively easily.
This finally brought us to a higher waterfall’s drop-off point where we could no longer follow the riverbank.
The waterfall rebounded leftward from its second tier and vanished behind the cliff.
Likely from slightly above Zaru Falls to this point, these deep cauldrons and waterfalls were strung together like prayer beads.

Later we learned that below lay Tenuabyss—where Nekohiko Goro (approximated characters), a retainer of Major Jikkawa, was said to have fallen to his death.
Grateful for the forest road’s convenience, we explored for nearly an hour before returning through the rain to the hut once more.

At four in the afternoon, as we began preparing the meal, the rain let up slightly. When we treated him to whiskey, the old man marveled at the offering and, while vigorously feeding firewood into the flames, regaled us with various tales of old.
The fates of Oze Dainagon and his retainer Major Jikkawa unfolded before our very eyes.
The mountain man’s tales, too, were an indispensable feature of such lodgings.

3. Climbing Kuroiwa Mountain via Sulfur Valley

The morning of the second day was cloudy, but reassured by the old man’s words that it would clear up, we departed at 8:45 AM.
The load was quite heavy.
We crossed to the right bank and walked along the gravel bed.
We caught sight of the trail leading to Hikimata Pass ascending the mountain to our left, then gradually veered right and soon entered Sulfur Valley with its clattering gravel stones.
The one coming from the left was Akakura-sawa, a valley of picturesque charm where black trees grew thickly, deeply carved into the mountain’s embrace.

Sulfur Valley was a rather treacherous stream. While fording posed no theoretical challenge, the piled rocks and considerable flow of water made it no trivial matter. After proceeding three or four *chō* from the valley’s mouth—where the stream curved in from the left—the terrain became somewhat flat. The old man had escorted us this far and prayed for our safe journey ahead. After some time, there was a place on the riverbed where sulfur emerged. Realizing this must be why it was called Sulfur Valley, we pressed onward as a stream came cascading down from the right. When we advanced further, streams converged. In this way, we passed through two or three fairly large stream confluences but repeatedly chose the leftward path and walked for roughly an hour.

As we pressed onward, the stream gradually narrowed until we came upon a waterfall.
To the left was an expanse of yellowish earth slope across that area, while to the right stood a rock wall.
The stream cascaded down fifty to sixty shaku from above to the left—crashing into the plunge pool with a roar—before flowing onward to form another cauldron that swirled at our feet.
This was the sole challenging spot we had heard about from the old man; compared to the waterfall slightly ahead of it though less remarkable overall—I provisionally named it Inner Hiyodori.
After setting down our packs and scouting the area—Taru climbed through a crevice in the left-hand rock wall using his elbows in mechanical-gymnastics style—crossed the stream—then crouching his body like a monkey—scaled upward from midway up the right bank’s cliff face to reach a slightly recessed spot.
Since it was quite dangerous—when I at the front lowered the rope from atop the rock—Toru Nagoshi at the rear grabbed it and finally managed to clamber up.
This place stood at an elevation of approximately one thousand seven hundred meters.

While the Jikkawa Valley was generally unremarkable, it often concealed such traps.
Above the Inner Hiyodori, the slope steepened abruptly, and waterfalls frequently loomed close, but as each had scant water and gentle inclines, we could advance without difficulty.
At around 1,800 meters, leaning against a rock, we finally saw the valley open up before us and gazed upon the beautiful Aizu-Koma mountain range.
All around us, even the young beech trees had vanished, and the landscape was now entirely black coniferous forest.
Before long, the stream narrowed, winding and twisting around the mountain, its flow no longer offering much resistance to gravity.
This was the Kuroiwa Dan spoken of by the people of Hinoemata, and we took up our chopsticks for lunch where the gentle stream’s water was on the verge of running out.
According to the barometer, that place indicated an elevation of 1,850 meters, but in reality, it seemed to be a bit higher.
The time was 11:25 AM.

I could not forget this profound allure of Kuroiwa Dan. No sooner had the waterfall-fed stream quietly leveled out than mountain bases began appearing in rapid succession to the right and left, each time the current raising a faint newborn cry as it danced playfully to wash my feet. The surroundings formed an unbroken expanse of densely wooded black trees, their undergrowth dotted with snow-crushed Nobuki and Metakarakau plants along with shrubs arranged as if potted—so much so that the bamboo grass, ever troublesome for climbing, was so unwelcome that one would not even think to use it for medicine. And whenever the small stream was blocked by fallen trees or wound too narrowly, we would quietly ascend to the mountain base and survey where we had come from and where we were headed. Yet the mountain’s summit remained hidden behind a uniform line of treetops, making its location impossible to discern. The valley’s end existed only in our awareness, and as for where we walked, we had no choice but to rely on the sound of water to gauge our path, observe the height of standing trees, and sense the cooling of our breath during rests. The only certainty was that I was ascending.

I couldn’t quite grasp the exact extent of Kuroiwa Dan, but in terms of time, we must have walked for about an hour. On a 1:50,000 scale map, one cannot trace this small mountain’s delicate ridges or the supple veins of its waterways. Nevertheless, we finally moved from the hollow of the dried-up stream into a forest where the slope steepened, groping our way toward the summit in near-darkness. That final ascent must have had a vertical rise of roughly one hundred meters. In any case, we avoided reaching the Kami-iwa border and instead climbed straight up the slope one or two chō (approximately 110–220 meters) to the north. At 12:40 PM, when we stood atop the ridge, we found ourselves on a rather expansive plateau that had not yet reached the shrub zone, where large trees stood sparsely in rows, making it impossible to discern which might mark the highest elevation. First, we climbed a small rise before us and shaded our eyes—there, to the north, a cluster of rocky peaks flickered into view. When I climbed two or three ken higher up the tree, my hands smeared with resin, I saw that the western face of that rocky peak formed a fearsome cliff; convinced by its splendid vista, we cheered, believing it to be the summit. So the three of us shouldered our heavy packs once more and headed north along the border. The mountaintop indeed bore many traces suggesting human intervention, but trails—more often blocked than not—soon led us astray. Yet as the thicket posed no real obstacle and there were no dangerous spots, we pressed steadily onward toward the rocky peak. This stretch spanned approximately two chō (about 220 meters). The rocky peaks remained on the flattened mountaintop like a fortress—three large rock masses, each no taller than three or four ken (5.45–7.27 meters), leaning against one another along an east-west axis. The place we climbed was the saddle between the small peak at Ganke Cliff’s western edge and the central one—a window-like formation. After hacking away obstructive trees with a hatchet, we emerged at Ganke Cliff’s summit at 1:10 PM.

When we arrived and looked around, creeping pines sparsely dotted this black rock's summit.
There were Gaultheria adenothrix shrubs and lingonberry plants.
The vista was magnificently beautiful.
Having emerged from an endless forest where light scarcely filtered through to this sudden expanse of open sky, we rejoiced until our very eyes seemed to dance.
Yet no triangulation marker stood here.
Thinking it might lie elsewhere, we scaled the adjacent peak and dashed northward to a small rise one chō away—still nothing.
When we carefully retraced our path with measured gazes, a solitary lofty peak came into view some distance away—poised with quiet dignity.
This proved to be the true summit, but since we'd come this far and Gange's crest offered such exceptional views, we found ourselves lingering there for over an hour.

During that time, we crushed Gaultheria adenothrix berries with our tongue tips while surveying the encircling mountains. When we shifted slightly north from the valley below this Ganke cliff, we found a marshland sheathed in beautiful coniferous forests displaying withered grass hues. This matched what Old Man Shigetaro had called Shichibei Tashiro, though his mention of another unnamed tashiro near Magobei Mountain left some ambiguity. I found it hard to accept this tashiro's absence from topographic maps. The Jikkawa Valley remained deeply hidden within forests, while Yahitsudaira plateau appeared within arm's reach.

The mountains revealed themselves with crystalline clarity - above all, Hiuchigatake's beautiful twin peaks flanked by Echigo Province's Nakanodake, Komagatake and Arasawadake to the right, with topographically marked Ōsugidake nearby and Aizu-Koma's trembling elegance beyond. Turning northward, Nagasu no Tama-yama (unknown to Shigetaro) and part of its Dai-jō Tashiro marsh extended from Magobei Mountain's awkward saddle form, beyond which Daikura's twin peaks (2,067m) rose past Hikibane Pass.

To their left lay Taishaku Mountain's faintly pointed profile, its range briefly concealed by Daikura before reemerging as broad-crowned Tashiro Mountain. Far beyond stretched two or three magnificent ranges, likely including majestic Iizuna Mountain. Before them lay a plateau-like range whose nature escaped my lamentable regional knowledge.

To Hiuchi's left stood Nōgan (Keikakuzan), its range curving toward Shibutsusan past a low pass where I glimpsed the distant Tone River source and western massifs near Kozawadake and Ushigatake - peaks beyond my expertise. Since Mr. Nagoshi carried the Kodak camera, I sketched little only to find later that his photos too had failed.

From Shibutsusan rose a distinctive hat-shaped peak near Shōbudaira, Sarafuseyama and Nigura-yama, while southward Mount Hotaka hid in clouds. Between Hiuchigatake and Kuroiwa Mountain stood Takaishi and Aka-yasu Mountains - both around 2,000m yet unremarkable through proximity. The range extending from Kuroiwa to Kinunuma stayed mostly hidden behind the highest peak, only Kinunuma's fragment showing through.

Alas, Nikko's direction lay completely clouded over this day.

At 2:35 PM, we turned south from Ganke’s peak.
The temperature registered nine degrees Celsius then—with no wind stirring, it felt remarkably warm.
When we edged slightly southward from where we’d earlier climbed a tree to scout the summit, the slope grew steeper.
With that shift, the mountain’s plateau dwindled at last to reveal the ridge’s true form.
The trail lay faint but discernible; there was something oddly exhilarating about climbing by toeholds on roots and parting rhododendron thickets.
Around three o’clock, our boots met the triangulation point’s marker stone.
This peak too bore a western cliff-face, though trees crowned its top—it lacked the northern Ganke’s satisfying austerity.
The vista differed little overall, yet here we first gained sight of Kinunuma Mountain’s direction.
Creeping pines grew plentifully from the summit southward.
By plan, we should’ve reached this spot before noon to follow the border toward Kinunuma Marsh—but delayed by time and cowed by Hinoemata villagers’ warnings of impenetrable undergrowth, we resigned ourselves to descending Yoichi Valley (Kodaike Valley).
In my mind’s design, we would later ascend a Yoichi tributary to Kinunuma Mountain’s slopes, survey its marshlands, then descend to Kuriyama Village.

The circumstances that led to the abandonment of this second plan due to various reasons are as follows.

4. Descent into Yoichi Valley (Kodaike Valley)

Reluctantly leaving the summit of Kuroiwa Mountain after only a brief respite, we descended southward along the ridge, parting through the creeping pines.
The border trail, lined with fairly new marker posts, showed little deterioration.
From midway, we gazed at the black forest curving southwest along the border.
The upper reaches of Nakano-sawa on the Joshū side lay deeply hidden, yet that area likely formed a tranquil fairyland akin to Kuroiwa Dan.
Yet where it met the source of Kuroiwa Mountain, the land abruptly towered within the forest, its depths remaining uncharted.
The creeping pines parted ways around the two-thousand-meter mark as we wove through a coniferous forest that looked bitterly cold.
When we turned slightly right, a somewhat steep descent appeared, and from there onward we could clearly count forest section markers at intervals of approximately ten ken each.
A clean flatland free of bamboo grass now lay beneath our feet.
However, we were occasionally met with thorny shrubs and couldn't help feeling some unease.
Thus utterly exhausted, we finally found ourselves atop a mountain where black trees stood upright.
A modest stream meandered without discernible origin.
Though the path ahead seemed to ascend slightly, after scouting we confirmed this was indeed our planned descent point.
It was 4:00 PM.

When we descended from the sag, water immediately welled up in the stream’s hollow on the Joshū side.
“Good—if we camp here, we’ll be safe,” I thought as we rustled down through bamboo grass along the stream’s right bank. There lay an ideal campsite: the stream murmured past sandy banks flattened like an earthen floor.
Yet this very perfection unnerved me—could such tranquility herald the mountain waters’ abrupt turn?
Harboring this doubt, we pressed onward. After barely one chō (110 meters), we stood atop a towering waterfall.
It cascaded in twelve tiers or more over jagged rocks. Below, torrents threw up spray where it merged with a leftward tributary before vanishing into mountain shadows.
“What should we do?”
“It’s twenty past four—camp here or push downstream?” I asked, glimpsing level ground below while probing their resolve.
“Let’s try descending,” came the reply.
Taking point, I edged left through trees clustered at the waterfall’s brink, descending between cliff face and tributary. Though steep, supple branches and bamboo stems allowed us to inch downward without falling.
The left tributary held scant water but still carved treacherous steps. From a birch’s roots we sidled leftward, finally scrambling onto its rocks.
Ochiai lay beneath us now.
Gazing up at the twelve-tiered cascade, I pitied this traveler who kept seeking valleys to test his endurance.
Dusk approached.

Since the expected flatland was nowhere to be found，the party still had to continue clambering down from rock to rock．The water was low—a fortunate thing—so there were no proper waterfalls to speak of；yet staircases of rock and water continued appearing one after another．When finally the sky’s whiteness faded and the depths of the forests on either side became indistinguishable，they finally managed to find a single patch of level ground．The spot lay beneath a waterfall，where the rock’s surface had leveled out somewhat across an area of about three tsubo．Along the rock’s edge ran a clear and cool stream，while to the left stood a forest close enough for comfort yet sufficiently distant to pose virtually no risk of falling rocks．The time was 5：00 PM；they promptly pitched the tent．And at 10：00 PM when they retired，the temperature was seven and a half degrees，the air pressure 619 mmHg，and the barometer indicated an elevation of 1，710 meters．Facing the glittering stars，we sipped Toru Nagoshi’s prized arrowroot tea and went to bed．

When dawn broke on November 3rd, we rose at 4:30 AM and lit a fire.
The journey along the mountain streams was likewise blessed with fine weather.
With only one small pot that could cook no more than three gō of rice at a time, preparing both our meal and soup took considerable time, so we did not set out until fifteen minutes past nine.
The temperature stood at fifteen degrees; the air pressure remained unchanged from the previous night.
Below our campsite, waterfalls still continued their descent, forcing us to carefully pick our way down rock faces so steep they made our toes ache.
The mountain blocking the valley's end appeared to be the right bank of the Kinugawa River's main stream, yet we sensed it still lay considerably distant.
At 9:55 AM, we reached the stream marked on the topographic map as a water source.
This flowed from Kinunuma Mountain's northern reaches toward the east.
After resting twelve or thirteen minutes and resuming our march, we noticed clouds moving from the south.
The stream no longer displayed its nervous succession of waterfalls, and I thought to myself that we were saved at last.
When we next looked up toward where we had rested by the ko-shaped bend of Kodaike Valley, the mountain to the left of the border sag we had descended stood imposingly before us.
Beneath it loomed a starkly exposed cliff, while nearby another high waterfall could be seen cascading down.
We departed at 10:45 AM.
I had forgotten whether it lay before or beyond that point, but there existed a briefly splendid waterfall.
The valley brimmed with flowing water as we edged our way down along the left bank with some trepidation.
After about twenty minutes appeared a hut—likely belonging to an angler or such—on the left bank.
When our calls met no response and we pressed onward, the gravel bed gradually began to widen.
The widest section lay where two withered trees stood imposingly within the gravel expanse.
There rested a large square boulder, upon which we climbed and took our respite.
It was past 11:20 AM.

(This place was likely beneath a tributary flowing from the east of Kinunuma Mountain; when indicated on a topographic map, I thought it would lie near Kodaike Valley’s pond.)
(Moreover, in this stream, besides the waterfall just mentioned, there were about two other notable ones.)

When we set out again, the gravel bed had already widened, rendering the waterfall something we had no desire to confront.
The sun shone brightly as we fluttered with excitement, anticipating the joy of reaching the main stream.
Yet after some thirty or forty minutes, that broad gravel bed abruptly narrowed, and the stream stealthily vanished leftward.
Pursuing its course with a puzzled murmur, we waded through deepening waters—only to find ourselves once more at the head of a grand waterfall.
But having come this far, all circumstances made clear this must be the cascade at the main stream's mouth.
Tentatively retracing our steps to their origin, we crossed to the right bank and climbed a hillock stretching arm-like toward the waterfall's crown—whereupon the Kinugawa River's broad main current unfolded before us, merging with Kodaike Valley's flow to play the valley's symphony.
Then from beneath our feet descended a path—at which we three instinctively raised a cheer.
At last we dashed down in one breath and settled upon the sandy bank of Kinugawa's left shore.
Exactly 12:10 PM.
The waterfall at Kodaike Valley's Ochiai stood five to six ken high (9-11 meters), its force a true testament to Nikko's hinterland waters.
Water roared from rock-shadows—form disregarded, ceaseless in descent—this vision stood as Yoichi Valley's (Kodaike Valley) final masterpiece and indeed its encompassing symbol.

5. Postscript

It was past three o'clock in the afternoon when we finally ate our fill of lunch and began descending toward Kawamata Hot Spring. Moreover, we remained entirely ignorant of how the old forest roads through Kinugawa Gorge had been laid out. To make matters worse, Toru Nagoshi—ordinarily so bold—had somehow become completely unnerved, refusing to take a single step when faced with stream crossings or cliff edges. There was even one spot where we resorted to using a rope. Between all these delays, we had already wasted an hour near Teshirozawa by the time we reached Kurozawa's confluence at 4:55 PM. Darkness already clung to our feet. Soon we lit lanterns and made endless midnight crossings of the stream. Though the water never rose above our groins, the current proved formidable. When we crossed Yuzawa's confluence through pitch-black darkness, all traces of human passage vanished, leaving us standing above a fathomless abyss. We tried scaling the left bank's mountain, but terrifying cliffs blocked every route. Forced to retreat, we resolved to camp. With ample provisions, our lives weren't endangered. Yet we didn't bed down until nearly midnight.

November 4th.
When I went to wash my face at the water's edge in the morning, there were numerous serow footprints in the sandy area.
They must have come down last night or early this morning to drink.
As had become our habit, we idled away the morning until nearly ten o'clock due to the broken pot.
We forded to the right bank and edged along a spot fifty or sixty meters above the water's surface, descending eastward through a sag thick with bamboo grass.
After descending into the valley below Sabizawa, we soon reached Kawamata Hot Spring's inn.
Though it was only around one in the afternoon, our mental exhaustion compelled us to settle there.
The innkeeper marveled at our reckless manner of trekking.
Our meal consisted of the usual venison and small game; soaking in the hot springs while watching the stream flow past, we traded mountain tales that seemed endless.
Given the circumstances of that day, even those few hours of respite remain unforgettable.

November 5th.
Unwilling to carry the load any further, we had Kojiro Yamaguchi—an old man well-versed in the mountains—shoulder our baggage and set off toward Kaganeyama.
At 6:00 AM, having fully ascended the path, from a vantage point offering fine views, we gazed upon the rugged Kuroiwa Mountain, which resembled nothing so much as Yokoteyama in Shinshu.
From there, we ascended the long Kaganeyama Path and stood beside the iron cable on Komatsu Peak atop Kaganeyama, gazing intently at the mountains of Kuroiwa, Kinugawa, Daikura, Taishaku, Tashiro, Shiobara, Nyobo, and others.
Especially when we saw Kuroiwa Mountain before our very eyes, it seemed strange that we had needed to devote so many days to that mountain.

I thought Kuroiwa Mountain was what made one feel they had finally grasped the essence of the deep mountains.