Further Ramblings In Japan

by R. Gowing

During my 1965/66 stay in Japan I had the feeling that I was on a once-in-a-Jifetime trip, so I crammed as much sightseeing as I could into my week ends and leaves. It may sound like heresy from a mountaineer to admit that a country has more interesting things than mountains but I felt that the unique features of Japan were its people, its architecture and its art rather than its mountains, however attractive they might be. Besides visiting practically all the places of interest within week end range of Tokai, I had spent a week touring down the Inland Sea to Kyushu and I had concluded my stay with a week in the cultural heart of Japan, the old capitals of Kyoto and Nara, strolling around age-old temples and gardens and observing the far-famed geisha. When I went back in 1967 I had seen most of the sights so I spent many Sundays exploring the hills within a day’s trip from Tokai.

Yamizoyama

Yamizoyama, 3353 ft., is the highest hill in Ibaraki-ken, it rises in the north-west corner of the county, near the triple point of Ibaraki and its neighbouring counties of Fukushima-ken to the north and Tochigi-ken to the west; it had long appealed to me as an objective for a Sunday trip. Accordingly, one Sunday in May, I set out armed with the road map and a few words of description from the Official Guide to Japan. I drove along the main coast road through Itachi and turned inland past the copper works to enjoy a pleasant sunny drive west through the hills to Daigo. By now azaleas and wisteria were out and carp banners were streaming in honour of the recent celebration of Boys’ Day.

From Daigo I followed the main road north for a few miles, then turned north-west up a very pretty valley with some lovely houses and masses of wisteria, the blossoms hanging in cascades from the trees. I followed the sign-posts as best I could and soon found myself on a rough but well graded road that climbed winding up the hillside. It soon became apparent that this was no ordinary road as the countryside began to fall away below me. I stopped to rest and to allow the car to cool a little before continuing to the top of the road, where a car park had been bull-dozed out. I put my boots on and after a brief search found a path leading gently upwards, which in about ten minutes took me to a point crowned by a shinto shrine and a signboard. This was the summit I had come to climb! To my regret the view was shut out by the heat haze; on a clear day it would extend from Bandai-san to the Nikko hills.

Nantai-san

My next trip was to Nantai-san, otherwise Futara-san, the sacred mountain of Nikko. So sacred was it in the seventeenth century to lemitsu, third Tokugawa Shogun, that he built at Nikko, at the foot of the Futara-san, the fantastically elaborate Toshogu Shrine in honour of his grandfather leyasu, unifier of Japan and founder of the rigid feudalistic system that ruled Japan until the Imperial Restoration a hundred years ago. Close by theToshogu is the quieter, much older shrine, the Lower Futara-san shrine.

I left Tokai at 6 o’clock on the morning of the first Sunday in June and drove west through Kasama to Utsunoyima, the bustling capital of Tochigi-ken. From here a good road leads to Nikko, through avenues of cryptomerias which are in many ways the finest part of the Toshogu Shrine. From Nikko the road continues up the valley of the Daiya to the foot of the 1500 ft. rise to Lake Chuzenji. This is achieved by a one-way toll road system, the way up climbing in well-graded sweeps and zigzags to rejoin the downhill road in Chuzenji village. The resort of Chuzenji lies at the outfall of the lake of that name, just above the famous Kegon Falls; by the side of the lake is the vermilion painted Middle Futarasan Shrine; here, after 3 hours’ drive from Tokai, I parked the car and started the ascent of Nantai-san.

At the back of the Shrine compound a gate under a stone torii marks the start of the ascent. The path climbs more or less straight up through the woods, which were brightened at this time of the year by lovely white azaleas. After a while the path joins a road which zigzags up part of the way and here I fell in with a young man who turned out to be a geologist from Tokio University. He and his colleagues, whom we met at the top of the road, told me a little of the geology and identified some of the rocks visible at the roadside. Nantai, it seems, last erupted a few thousand years ago and blocked the valley, damming it to form Lake Chuzenji.

I left the geologists to their survey work and continued up the rough path, clambering over fallen trees; the path had seen better days. When I set off it had been sunny but by now Nantai was clouded over. I went on, past a little woodland shrine and was soon in cloud which thickened into rain. I came out of the trees as the path began to level out a little and after a few minutes of walking on red cinder arrived at the rough wooden Upper Futarasan Shrine. This marks the 8150 ft. summit, about 4000 feet of ascent from Chuzenji. It is apparently the highest point of a rather lop-sided crater, but of this and the renowned view of the Nikko National Park area I could see nothing.

I descended by the same route; it was pleasant to come out of the clouds and enjoy the view of Chuzenji far below, with the comfortable Lakeside Hotel and the summer residences of the ambassadors. The Lakeside Hotel was formerly the British Ambassador’s residence, but times have changed. Once out of the clouds I dried out and it was not until I was safely back in the car that the rain once more set in as I drove down the hairpins of the Irohazaka highway to Nikko.

Shirane-san

Three weeks later and well into the Japanese summer, hot and muggy in the plain, I set off soon after 5 o’clock on a lightly overcast Sunday morning. I drove the usual way to Chuzenji, then along the lakeside, up past the Ryuzu-no-taki or Dragon’s Head waterfall and across the Sanjogahara plain, a pretty sight with wild iris and red azalea, past the little lake of Yunoko to the steaming hot-spring resort of Yumoto. I left the car beside the National Park Centre and followed the old road up through the woods of the Konsei valley. I soon spotted my path which wound through the forest and up left on to the Nakat-suzone ridge, through chest-high bamboo-grass, much of it in flower. On the ridge the trees thinned out and after some two hours of ascent I reached Kokuyobunki, a 7381 ft. subsidiary peak on the prefectural boundary ridge running down from Shirane towards the Konsei-toge Pass.

From Kokuyobunki the ridge led in about 20 minutes to Goshikiyama, 7743 ft., a peak on the north-east corner of the crater rim of Shirane-san. Shirane is a long extinct volcano, all overgrown and with a beautiful crater lake. From Goshiki I had a fine view of this lake, the Goshikinuma, and of 8458 ft. Shirane-san, my objective, opposite, partially obscured in mist. I stopped and chatted with some walkers and joined them in the popular Japanese pastime of photographing one another. Now I followed a gentle path along the north side of the crater. There were many attractive flowers, including a variety of soldanella; I photographed some of them but so far I have not been able to determine their proper names, the soldanella is named “Koiwa Kagami”. After about half a mile the path descends to a gap in the crater, where the little tarn Yadanoike makes a pretty sight amidst the greenery. Here I found a sort of Grass of Parnassus and masses of a large-flowered purple anemone, “Kikuzaki ichirinsou”. From Yadanoike I climbed steeply up to the main peak, Okushirane, through forest, then scrub, along a bit of a shoulder, then more steeply up rough scree towards broken rocks. The path led steeply scrambling through a gully to the well populated summit of Shirane-san, highest of the Nikko hills. Like most Japanese mountain tops it was thoroughly disfigured with litter, great heaps of beer and juice cans. I sat a little aside from the actual summit to enjoy my lunch.

There was scarely any view and as I finished my lunch the mist thickened and it started to rain. Luckily the path was well marked and easy to find as I made my way down the southeast side of the mountain to the Okushirane hut. There I rested before making the short climb on to the crater rim which soon led me to Maeshirane, 7776 ft. While there were views from the rim, Maeshirane was clouded.
I had now completed seven-eighths of the crater circuit and planned to descend by the south-east ridge. The mist presented no difficulty, a well marked path led off down the ridge and soon swung off to the north, to zigzag steeply down through the forest, a long way so it seemed, then down a stream bed and eventually down its right bank to the ski-ing grounds whence a good track led to Yumoto and the car. A day disappointing in its weather but nonetheless enjoyable in its contact with the beautiful hill country of Japan.

Fuji

Following my ascent in November 1965 of a Fuji encased in snow and ice (page 1 of this volume) I felt that it would be interesting to repeat the trip during the July/August summer season, to see the huts and shrines open and the thousands of people making the ascent. The opportunity escaped me before I left Japan in July 1966 but when I had the good fortune to return the following March I knew that whatever else I did, I would climb Fuji that summer.

July had come and Fuji had been duly opened with festivals of fire and invocations to the spirits of the great mountain, highest and holiest of Japan. At ten o’clock on the morning of the last Saturday in July I set out with Don French, a colleague at Tokai, and drove down the busy road to Tokyo. The traffic was heavy and crawling and it was not until we were through Hachioji, some 25 miles the other side of Tokyo, that we were really able to move. We carried on, feeling rather hungry, and at 4 p.m. we spotted an attractive looking restaurant, so stopped for a late lunch. This consisted of barbecued small birds and vegetables eaten from skewers, very tasty, with rice and soup.

While we fed it started to rain heavily, so we abandoned the idea of climbing Fuji in the traditional way, going up in the evening to one of the higher huts and continuing in the early morning to see the dawn from the summit. Instead we headed for Kawaguchi, one of the string of lakes that surrounds the northern side of Fuji, and the Fuji View Hotel on its shore. Though there were no western style rooms available there was a tatami room vacant which we gladly took. The Fuji View is one of several attractive hotels built about the turn of the century, spacious rooms, wood panelling and in winter big log fires. We strolled in the garden down to the lake, then returned for a Japanese bath and so to the dining room for a splendid dinner, probably the best western style meal I had in Japan. Before going to bed we looked out at Fuji which rose clear into the night, the route picked out by a string of lights.

After a rather uncomfortable night—with the thick futons we were too hot with one on and not warm enough without it—we rose at 5 and were away by 6. We were soon out of the mist and had a lovely run up the toll road through the forest with Fuji rising clear ahead; the only trace of snow visible was in the gully used on my previous ascent. However, as we drove up the wide sweeps of the splendid road, the clouds descended and shut off Fuji from view. As we came near the Fifth Station we saw hordes of coaches and cars parked at the roadside and were duly turned back by the police at the main car park, but we were lucky in finding a vacant if rather awkward spot two hundred yards down the road. We sorted our gear and went to the Fifth Station, which comprises an assemblage of souvenir shops and tea-rooms; here we bought our Fuji staffs and I a cheap straw sun-hat. A Fuji staff or Kongo-zue is five feet long, octagonal in section and is usually adorned with little bells and often a flag. It serves as a support, especially during the downhill cinder run; also as a substrate for collecting brand marks at the various huts, stations and shrines on the way and at the summit.

Thus equipped we set off along the “Ochudo” or horizontal path which links the Fifth Stations, or half-way houses of the various routes, and which here consists of a cinder surfaced road, joined by a rough, free road up which it is possible to drive for nothing from Fujiyoshida. Already we were passing people descending and, as we trudged on through the mist, we regretted having been deterred by the weather from what had obviously been a fine night and a dawn with good views. Twenty minutes after setting off we reached the Sixth Station where we paid a few yen to have our staffs branded. We now left the descending throngs, for here the uphill and downhill paths divide; the descent directly follows the great north-east cinder scoop, while the upward route zigzags to the east of it, to join it again at the Eighth Station, a little below the point at which Tom Gerrard and I had joined the scoop on our earlier ascent.

Don and I plodded up the path and at 9 o’clock reached the Seventh Station, at 9810 ft. where we stopped for a drink and 20 minutes rest. Each of the lower stations comprises a few huts at short intervals; these include the usual Japanese style sleeping accommodation of straw-matting covered floors with quilted futons for bedding and one can buy meals, drinks and chocolate at each. Consequently one need only carry one’s basic food and the necessary yen.

The next station was the “Torii” Station, marked by a torii or Shinto shrine gateway at the head of a flight of steps. A little way above this we came out of the mist into bright sunshine, though there was cloud all around Fuji, as though the upper part were a pudding in a basin of cloud. We could now see the cindery slope to either side, the descent route in the scoop and the track wending its way above us from hut to hut. Our route lay largely on a ridge bounding the east side of the scoop and gave good views of it.

Shortly before the Eighth Station we joined the descent route, resuming two-way traffic, and at 10.15 we were at the Eighth Station 10,170 ft., where we had 15 minutes’ rest and which we left in bright sunshine. I was glad of my straw hat and was later to regret having my stockings rolled down; one tends to associate sunburn with the high altitude snow but that night my calves demonstrated painfully that altitude alone is enough. My companion was now feeling the height; He had dropped behind when at 12.30 I reached the Ninth Station. Here there is a sort of combined shop and shrine and inside I found three American service men so I stopped for a drink with them. I left after a quarter of an hour’s rest and at 1.30 arrived at the stone torii flanked by two guardian stone lions which mark the entrance to Kusushi, the shrine village on the crater rim—five hours ascent inclusive of numerous stops. There was a great throng here, including a large party of high school children and a small group of university people with whom I chatted. Don soon arrived and after taking a few photographs we went into the street of souvenir shops for a welcome beer. Looking at the busy crowds I recalled how, alone, I had sheltered here from the icy wind on that cold November day in 1965.

We visited the crater’s edge and then at 2.20 I set off, leaving Don to rest while I toured the crater. I by-passed the first two summits on the left, stopping to look at a fine volcanic ‘bomb’, and went round to Gimmeisui, “Silver Sparkling Water”. This was rather tatty, with the spring or well in a fenced enclosure and a hut without much sign of life; away from Kusushi there were not many people, most being content to regard that as the summit. I climbed up the other side of the col in which Gimmeisui nestles and continued to the main Sengen Shrine on the south side of the crater, where I had my staff stamped by one of the Shinto priests. I went on round and climbed up to Kengamine, the 12,388 ft. summit of Fuji-san, crowned by a weather radar which can detect typhoons up to 500 miles away in the Pacific and thus give ample warning to people to prepare for these violent storms. There was a party of workmen sunning themselves, presumably up there to maintain the observatory.

I went along the ridge a few yards, descended a little using a fixed ladder and looked at the big hut by the crater’s edge which seemed to belong to the observatory. About 500 feet below, the crater floor was covered with old snow, with stones arranged in Kenji characters on it. I continued on the ‘inner circuit’, reaching Kimmeisui, “Gold Sparkling Water”, at 2.45. This comprises a little stone hut in a dry stone enclosure and showed no sign of life.

I was soon back at Kusushi to rejoin Don. Here we met our American friends and agreed that we should descend together and take them back to their base at Hachioji on the western outskirts of Tokio. I decided to go ahead since Don was in good company; the descent path was splendid; one ran in long strides, the fine cinders cushioning each footfall, more like coarse sand than scree. Near the bottom it became vegetated— I noted Rock Knotweed—and the path stabilised. At the Sixth Station, half an hour on the descent route, I was in mist again; I had my staff branded with the descent stamp and carried on, now passing parties going up to spend the night in the huts; a quarter of an hour later I was at the Fifth Station, in just over an hour from the top.

My friends arrived an hour and a half later and we set off down, a lovely long, gentle descent to near Kawaguchi and so to Fujiyoshida. We drove out to Otsuki and then were in heavy traffic most of the way to Tokyo. For me the most tiring part of the trip was not so much the ascent of Fuji but the drive there and back. Tokyo late on Sunday night was relatively easy and we reached Tokai around 1 a.m. after a tiring but most enjoyable week end, a fitting conclusion to my rambles amongst the mountains of Japan.