The power of water

Translation: the Kurobe pioneer Kanmuri Matsujirō wonders at the gorge's river-sculpted landscapes.

Whenever I walk through a gorge, I am struck by the extraordinary power of water. Looking up at the towering walls of a canyon, and seeing how its muscular ridges stand out, I marvel at the lineaments of nature’s sculpture and wonder how water, flowing in its courses from the very top of these high peaks, could ever have carved through the unyielding rock in this way.

Landscape in the Kurobe Gorge.
Photo by Kanmuri Matsujirō. 

Yielding as it is, water may seem tentative at first, as it flows cautiously around each small and scattered pebble; yet, as it gains momentum—rushing, surging, and seeping—it gathers a force that can heave aside massive boulders. Ultimately, it acts like some colossal axe of the heavens, hewing its way through solid rock and carving out deep, dramatic gorges.

For those of us who plumb these declivities, the experience is unique: we walk as if through a vast natural gallery, admiring the masterpieces of some transcendental artist who spends millennia meticulously sculpting these landforms. 

Wading the Kurobe River.
Photo by Kanmuri Matsujirō.

This pleasure far surpasses that of a connoisseur who loses himself in admiration while caressing the surface or contemplating the colours of a fine celadon vase or some antique raku-ware bowl; the scale here is grander, the setting more grandiose, and the effects infinitely more magnificent and awe-inspiring. Indeed, few memories leave as profound an impression as those formed while exploring a truly spectacular mountain gorge.

And thus, when I see such splendid landscapes encroached upon or chipped away by human agency, I feel a sorrow far deeper than if I saw some master craftsman’s rare and exquisite handiwork thoughtlessly smashed to smithereens.

A gorge carved into solid, hard rock is the finest setting for water as a sculptor. And, in my view, the Kurobe Gorge stands as an example of its finest work.

Cliffs in the Upper Corridor.
Photo by Kanmuri Matsujirō. 

From the end of Meiji through the Taishō and Shōwa periods, long before any trails had been established, I spent my time exploring this gorge, following the river’s course and delighting in the breathtaking scenery along the way. At times, I found myself trapped in rapids, or almost swept away; at other times, I clung to a rope while scaling sheer cliffs, seeking out a ledge to spend the night, and I have even had to pass the night atop a massive boulder washed around by the raging torrent.

"Takamaki": traversing above the river.
Photo by Kanmuri Matsujirō. 

Using ladders, makeshift bridges, traverses, and narrow gantries along the cliffs, I and my companions of a like mind made our slow and steady way forwards, though never allowing ourselves to be the slaves of any rigid timetable. We followed the main current of the Kurobe River all the way up to his source, exploring the major tributaries and plumbing their hidden depths.

What struck me most during our forays through this gorge was the magnificence of its cliffs, as well as the dignity of its primeval forests, still untouched by human encroachment. And then there were the Kurobe’s currents, washing the skirts of these cliffs and forests, sometimes moving with quiet grace, at other times plunging along in a mad untrammelled rush.

Flowing over their granite bed, the Kurobe’s waters gleam with a pellucid ultramarine that matches that of the sky above. I had never before encountered a valley so brilliant, bold, and exhilarating; it took our breath away.

As I walked through the gorge’s corridors, I was fascinated by their forms and the loom of the ramparts above. It is a grandiose sight to behold how the high mountain walls plunge down from the Tateyama side towards the Ushiro-Tateyama side; and where these cliffs meet the river, we meet with a range of natural wonders.

Tributaries, for example, often enter the main current as a hanging valley, so that their waters cascade down like sheets of water. That is, in a gorge whose sides soar up like the walls of a corridor, erosion works less on the tributaries, so that their waters almost always tumble into the main river as waterfalls. Over the course of centuries, as these waterfalls gradually eat their way backwards, they carve out vast cavernous basins where they descend. Within these gorges, one finds beautiful plunge pools, cauldron-like basins where the water, driven by the force of the waterfalls, churns and foams as if on the boil. Especially striking are the places where streams such as Gaki-dani, Tsurugi-zawa, Umegoya-zawa (at Jujikyō), and Shin-koshi-zawa cascade into the main river.

Arriving at a campsite in the gorge.
Photo by Kanmuri Matsujirō. 

As one makes one’s way along the river, looking up at the canyon walls on either side, the diverse shapes, colours, and rock jointing never fail to pique one’s curiosity. There are sheer slab-like walls rising five hundred metres, while in places like Hakuryu-kei, rugged shoulder-like rock formations jut out over deep, tranquil pools. The cliffs that bound the Great Waterfall of Tsurugi are perhaps the most spectacular sight in the entire Kurobe region. Further towards the Upper Corridor (Kami no Rōka), one encounters massive, block-like rock formations resembling giant whetstones that protrude into the raging torrent.

In some spots, the rock formations that emerge from the deep pools have surfaces patterned like suits of armor—the effect, perhaps, of molten mineral-rich rocks having cooled rapidly.

The cliff descending from the 2,400-metre summit of Kurobe-Bessan towards the Lower Corridor (Shimo no Rōka) spans roughly a thousand metres. It consists of a continuous series of diamond-shaped (rhomboid) rock faces, stacked one above another at an angle of about 65 degrees from the valley floor—a truly magnificent spectacle.

Through the aeons, the river’s action has meticulously carved away the tips of the ridges that descend from the mountains toward the valley, leaving these ridge-ends exposed as diamond-shaped rock faces. While these walls might appear rectangular when viewed from the valley floor, a higher vantage point reveals them to be strikingly diamond-shaped formations. These outcrops line both sides of the Kurobe River, where crags shaped like bronze temple bells pile one atop the other to form a continuous gorge that extends fully sixty kilometres upstream from its lower reaches.

It is fair to say that, for the most part, it was the erosive power of water that shaped these features.

Envoy: Far away

Far away!

Whether in the realm of human life

or in the world of nature

I feel it to my core

this spirit that pursues the infinite.

Water threading its way through the same crags,

a current curving always along the same path

always in the same form

as I watch it

I find myself somehow

drawn into thoughts of eternity.

It is a strange thing:

the water that never returns to the same place,

the rocks that shift their shape, however slightly

and even I, who gaze upon them

am no longer the same person I was a moment ago.

The ceaseless workings of nature

strike my heart with awe.

A vision of the far-off

a spiral, an infinite gyre

and I, too, am in motion

as a single point along its orbit.

And so too, I grow old.

"Is this how those who depart must go?"

Oh, you, who are so far away—

Oh, eternal Nature—

Is it the mountains’ enduring power that draws me to them

or is it their infinite beauty?

References

Kanmuri Matsujirō, “The power of water” (Mizu no Chikara) in Tani (Gorge), Chūko Bunko, 1979.

Images are details from photos presented in Valleys and Peaks: Kanmuri Matsujiro and Hokari Misuo, catalogue of an exhibition held at Tokyo Metropolitan Museum of Photography, March-May 2014. 

The limits to mountaineering

Translation: the Kurobe pioneer Kanmuri Matsujirō says farewell to the great river gorge as age creeps up on him.

This is just my own experience, but even in my fifties, if I worked at it, I could still manage some fairly rough terrain.

But once I reached sixty, my physical strength started to fade quite a bit. I believe that around sixty-five is the limit for mountain climbing. Even after that, I could still climb mountains if they had well-maintained trails and mountain huts. However, rock climbing and pushing through river gorges became extremely difficult.

No matter how strong my body was, my footwork deteriorated. And as my joints lost their resilience, there was nothing I could do about it.

When I tackled snow-covered Kai-Komagatake in December in my fifties, I could get up it easily enough. However, when I climbed the same mountain in November at the age of sixty-five, I found myself exhausted. And I took an absurdly long time.

So mountains that I used to climb effortlessly are now quite strenuous. And that's just the climb: coming down is worse. When I was younger, I was good at descents, and I could confidently rush down steep slopes, but now at seventy-seven, I have to watch my every step. Because of this, everything takes five or six times longer, and it's also more dangerous than when I was younger.

Exploring Tsurugi-sawa in 1926.
Photo by Kanmuri Matsujiro.

Whenever I look up at Washiba-dake from Takaba-Norikoshi, I'm captivated by the beauty of that single, straight line soaring heavenwards, and I used to climb it with elan. I tried that again recently, but realised I had to chip away at the slope slowly. As for descending, this simply wouldn’t work for me any more. For what used to take 30 minutes, I now needed two or three hours before I could finally reach the pass.

I used to be good at running down the scree slopes of the Gotemba and Subashiri routes on Mt Fuji, but I don't think I could do that today. I feel it in my bones that you can't fight age no matter what you do.

The same goes for my pack. When I was younger, even I could carry seven or eight kan (approximately 30 kg) on my back. I used to carry about twelve kan (approximately 45 kg) in a large bag to the train station at my destination. Then I would divvy up the tent, ropes, food, and other items with my companions and go into the mountains carrying about five kan (approximately 18.75 kg) on my back. This was when I was in my twenties and thirties.

In my forties, it wasn't so bad, but by my fifties, I could carry only up to three kan (approximately 11.25 kg), and I tried not to carry anything more than that. In one's youth, carrying heavy loads doesn't seem to trouble the body much, but by the time one reaches forty or fifty, one must take great care not to strain oneself.

I believe the reason why mountain climbers don't live as long as the average person does is because the strain they put on their bodies takes its toll in old age.

The great guides Kamijo Kamonji (1847–1917) and Saeki Heizō (1878–1943) died in their sixties. As for Uji Chōjirō (1872–1945), he lived to be seventy-one, but even that doesn't seem particularly long to me. Of the people from Oyama Village who went into the mountains with me, only one is over seventy.

In short, anyone who climbs mountains needs to carefully consider the question of what they carry; otherwise, instead of strengthening their body and living a long life in the mountains, they might actually end up dying prematurely.

I went back to the Kurobe this July. While appreciating the scenery, I also saw the construction of the hydroelectric power plant. Even then, to navigate the difficult sections, I had to look to the youth who was with me for help.

Even so, I enjoyed the trip. No matter how arduous it was, I revelled in the natural surroundings of the Kurobe, and the way in which its beautiful scenery drew me in.

I was lucky enough to explore the Kurobe at just the right moment. This time, I felt as if I had gone there to say goodbye. This is probably my final farewell to the Kurobe as it used to be.

I don't think it will be possible to enter the Kurobe via Keyakidaira into the Shimonoroka, the Lower Corridor, for a while. Since the Kurobe Route was built, the path to Shimonoroka hasn't been maintained, and so the boardwalks have collapsed and the suspension bridges are broken. The power company plans to renovate this path into a semi-tunnel type, but I think this will probably take about three years.

Meanwhile, the dam will be completed, and it will be possible to get through to the shore of the dammed lake by bus. When that happens, I would like pay it another visit. The completion date is set for June of Shōwa 38 (1963), so I will be about eighty-two years old by then.

References

Kanmuri Matsujirō, “The limits to mountaineering” (Tozan no genkai) in Tani (Gorge), Chūko Bunko, 1979.

More about the pioneering work of Kanmuri Matsujirō in An audience with the Tsurugi Ōtaki.

Related post: Age shall not wither them. 

That unfashionable gyre

Are there parallels between present-day rumblings in the Alps and the prewar period?

In the summer of 1924, the Swiss author and alpinist Alfred Graber was on a walking tour around Zermatt with a friend who edited a German mountaineering journal. On a day of bad weather, they were relaxing in a hut when the door crashed open and two German alpinists strode in, greeting the company with a loud “Berg heil!”

The two climbers had just despatched a north face: “Only our mountaineers could pull off something like that,” Graber’s neighbour said, prompting the Swiss writer to wonder if “the shadow of the Thousand-Year Reich was not already looming up behind him."

The incident is retold in Dichter am Berg (Poets on the hill), a lucid and readable study of Switzerland’s modern mountain writers by Emil Zopfi, who is best described as the doyen of the Academic Alpine Club of Zurich’s arctic/mountain literature cadre.

By coincidence, when I came across Zopfi’s anecdote, I’d just been leafing through Mountains and the German Mind (see previous post), edited by Sean Ireton and Caroline Schumann.

Their – really very useful – historical anthology includes, as it must, a chapter on Eduard Pichl (1872–1955), a pioneer of guideless climbing and many first ascents in the Austrian Alps, some of which still carry his name.

Pichl started his career as a civil servant but, after a spell in captivity during the first world war, retired early to head up the Section Austria of the German and Austrian Alpine Association. He also founded an “Austria-Jungmannschaft” that “he raised from the beginning in a heroic sense for Volk and homeland”.

Yet, as Wilfried Wilms notes in his excellent translator’s introduction to this chapter, it is Pichl’s campaign against the Alpine Association’s Section Donau that did most to secure his prominence during the 1920s and 1930s.

Section Donau, with its Jewish membership, had been admitted to the Association in 1921. Pichl opposed the move, setting out his thoughts in an article entitled “The Alpine Association and German Purity”, published in a 1923 edition of Der Bergsteiger, a magazine.

“And we will continue to travel down the path we consider indispensable in order to preserve the Germanness of the German and Austrian Alpine Association, which to us is an emblem of German unity,” Pichl concluded ominously.

His campaign succeeded: a year later, the Alpine Association held a special meeting to expel Section Donau. This was in 1924, around the time when Alfred Graber was being Berg heil’d in Zermatt.

Later episodes, such as the cooption for propaganda purposes of the Eiger’s first ascenionists in 1938, have become even more notorious. But a reading of Emil Zopfi’s book reveals that right-wing nationalists were not alone in politicising the Alps.

The left-affiliated Swiss writer Emmy Nöthiger-Beck (1910–2004), for example, was an enthusiastic supporter of the Naturfreunde (“Friends of Nature”). The movement was founded in 1895 in Vienna to give working-class people access to the mountains and nature – a set of aims similar to those of the present-day Japan Workers Alpine Federation.

Its members organized hikes, nature studies, and political lectures for workers, and built hundreds of volunteer-constructed huts (Naturfreundehäuser) in forests and mountain areas. Pointedly, their favoured mountain greeting was “Berg frei!”, not “Berg heil!”

Another Naturfreund was Fritz Kasparek, Heinrich Harrer’s rope partner on the Eiger. At least, he started out as one, as Zopfi records, but later gave up his affiliation. It may be that his change of heart took place when Germany's new regime banned and dissolved the Naturfreunde in 1933, confiscating their huts and persecuting their officials. When the Austrian government followed suit in 1934, the organisation’s headquarters relocated to Zurich, where they remained until 1988…

All this might have remained on the level of a historical footnote – were it not for an article in the very latest issue of Die Alpen, the bimonthly journal of the Swiss Alpine Club. In it, under the title of “Right-wing extremists ideologically appropriate the mountains”, the historian Damir Skenderovic reports on the doings of current far-right groups such as “Junge Tat” (“Youth Action”). 

"Mountains make up a third of Switzerland," explains Skenderovic, "so they serve as a powerful symbol of identity. Far-right groups highlight these national characteristics, claiming they are under threat and must be defended."

Such groups, Skenderovic says, use mountains, outdoor activities and even sportswear to promote a nationalist outlook: Junge Tat is currently offering a sweat shirt with the logo “Unser Berg unsere Regeln” (Our mountain, our rules).

Somewhat like the Naturfreunde before them, some of the far-right groups organize hikes as well as other outdoor exercises. Although the hikes themselves may be unexceptionable, organized activities often serve a political purpose by strengthening group identity and solidarity, Skenderovic argues.

As for the Alps, far-right groups present them as symbols of an authentic homeland that they believe is threatened by modernity, globalization, immigration, multiculturalism, technology and development.

"The mountains are viewed as a place of retreat where one can still find a sense of homeland and unspoiled nature—a kind of anti-modernity. Many right-wing groups also invoke nature conservation when opposing overpopulation, migrants, and overdevelopment," Skenderovic says, adding that the links between nationalism, nature, and political reaction have deep historical roots.

Finally, Skenderovic suggests that the authorities should take right-wing extremism more seriously. Outdoor communities in Germany and Austria, for example, have organized alternative hiking activities to show that mountains and nature can remain shared spaces rather than symbols of exclusion.

Back in 1936, the poet W B Yeats warned that “all things run/On that unfashionable gyre again.” In the same spirit, it might be time to pay more attention to how the mountains and other landscapes are being exploited in political discourse. What starts in the Alps doesn’t necessarily stay there.

References

Emil Zopfi, Dichter am Berg: Alpine Literatur aus der Schweiz, AS Verlag, 2009.

Sean Ireton and Caroline Schaumann (eds), Mountains and the German Mind: Translations from Gessner to Messner, 1541–2009, Camden House, 2020.

Interview with Damir Skenderovic, Associate Professor of Contemporary History at the University of Fribourg, Die Alpen, 05/26 edition.

“Mountains and the German Mind”

Review: a historical anthology traces a culture’s changing view of mountains.

Back in March, an encounter with the Taishо̄-era mountaineer Kitagawa Jun’ichirо̄ on Shikoku’s Ishizuchi-san left me with a problem. Where to find a good English version of a half-forgotten essay on alpine aesthetics that Kitagawa-sensei once translated from the original German into Japanese?

Fortunately, the local library was up to the challenge – the subject essay, Georg Simmel’s “On the aesthetics of the Alps” is Englished in full by Jens Klenner in Mountains and the German Mind: Translations from Gessner to Messner, 1541–2009 edited by Sean Ireton and Caroline Schaumann.

I did think of buying my own copy of this weighty tome (0.7 kg, 340 pages) but Amazon’s asking price was a hefty £118 or about 130 Swiss francs. Oof! And the one review on the site was less than enticing:

A useless book. Written for a cultured and self-complacent elite in their culture. A bad copy of Mountains of the Mind by McFarlane (sic). An anthological collection of boring texts not so much because they are ancient but because they are not inserted in a general narrative context that speaks more specifically about the mountains... (Translated from the Italian by Amazon)

Again, oof! But is it really fair to compare a sourcebook of translations from various authors with Robert Macfarlane’s scholarly yet readable Mountains of the Mind: A History of a Fascination? The latter is best described as a highly personal account of how the Brits and a sprinkling of other Europeans changed their minds about mountains between the middle ages and the present.

In a way, the Amazon reviewer does have a point. Macfarlane’s masterpiece may have started out as a doctoral thesis, yet it was so well re-imagined and recast that it now regales a popular readership from the shelves of the world’s airport bookshops.

By contrast, Mountains and the German Mind is a collection of eighteen translated texts spanning nearly five centuries of the German-speaking peoples’ engagement with mountains. Together these essays show how mountains have served as sites of scientific inquiry, aesthetic reflection and nationalist ideology. And, moving into our own times, as amphitheatres of self-validation and promotion.

Many of the texts included have never appeared in English before or were previously unavailable in modern editions. Each set of essays is preceded by a translator's introduction that outlines the historical and literary background. Taken together, these short but useful articles provide much of the "general narrative context" that the Amazon reviewer says she's looking for.

The time frame is well thought out. The first translated author is the Zurich-based polymath Conrad Gessner (1516-65), whose writings about Mt. Pilatus refute the myth that mountains were neglected as a subject for study and enjoyment before the eighteenth century. He’s been translated before, but this lively new version helps to underscore that Gessner was the true originator of “Type Two fun”:

“But walking itself and weariness are unpleasant; there is also danger in the difficulty of high places and precipitous drops; the comforts of food and bed are wanting.” Say all this is so, but it will be a joy afterward to remember these labors and risks, and to turn these things over in the mind and recount them to friends.

And so we proceed via Johan Jakob Scheuchzer’s “Natural History of Switzerland” (1716) to travel diaries by Sophie von La Roche (1787) and G W F Hegel (1796), and so on to Alexander von Humboldt (1802) and Hermann von Barth, the summit-bagging pioneer of the Karwendel range (1874). Next comes the above-mentioned Georg Simmel (essays from 1895 and 1911), who probably climbed few mountains or none, but ably summed up at least a century’s worth of thinking about them. 

Thanks to the convincing selection of authors, readers can map the way that mountains morphed during the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries into objects of the Romantic sublime on the one hand, and into “vertical laboratories” for the academicians on the other. As a venture in cultural history, therefore, this book fills a gap in English-language mountain libraries. It really is quite useful if one can look past the steep asking price. 

Moving into the twentieth century, the editors’ selection of texts begins to raise some questions. Eduard Pichl’s “Autobiographical Sketch” (1914) and “The Alpine Association and German Purity” (1923) are surely a logical place to start an overview of this troubled era – at the least, these essays show where the rot set in.

But one could query whether Leni Riefenstahl’s “Struggle in Snow and Ice” (1933) sheds light on anything much except Riefenstahl’s alpine-sized ego. Deeper insights into that dangerous nexus of nationalism and mountaineering might have been drawn from the writings of the alpinists Paul Bauer or Luis Trenker, neither of whom makes the cut. Even without these myrmidons of mountaineering, though, the editors have adequately documented the era they lived in.

Standing in for the postwar period is Reinhold Messner, who has published his own idea of what a mountain anthology should include. His essay “Westwall: The Abyss Principle” (2009) records a climb on a rapidly disintegrating face of the Ortler. This essay too is well chosen: at times, Messner could be speaking for almost any contemporary alpine climber:

The high afternoon sun briefly lights up the ice wall above me and my fear increases. Global warming and strong sunshine – it’s hard to stomach! If I could only pass on this experience! But what good would it do to convince people that the glaciers are dwindling? They are not afraid….

As the above-quoted Amazon reviewer suggests, Mountains and the German Mind is inevitably a heavier read than Macfarlane’s Mountains of the Mind. But then again, it was designed to be – here we have scholarly translations of the original texts rather than a synopsis. Readers are left to draw their own conclusions. Ideally, one should read both books – Macfarlane for British viewpoints, Ireton and Schaumann's compilation for those from a different language and culture.

Speaking of which, English-speakers could benefit from similar collections selected from several other mountaineering cultures. If such anthologies existed, they would broaden our horizons, just as Mountains and the German Mind has. What about France, for a start? Or Poland? Or Slovenia? Or Italy?

I’m sorry that the Amazon reviewer was disappointed with her purchase, yet also a bit surprised. At the same time, I find myself wondering if she might she one day consider putting together a Mountains and the Italian Mind? If she does, Project Hyakumeizan will be the first to review it.

A meizanologist's diary (140)

18 August: We’re all for intense intercultural encounters, but the line has to be drawn somewhere. Especially so early in the morning.

Wholesome as it is, the hut’s breakfast comes without our habitual cup of coffee. So we vow to make good this caffeine deficit later in the morning, when we pass through Murodō, the hut complex underneath Hakusan’s triple summit.

Following a “cold start”, progress is inevitably slow. At 7 am or so, we set out across a prairie of sasa, its broad leaves shedding their burden of dew onto our clothes as we brush through. The Sensei has decided on the long way up to Hakusan’s main peak, via the Tembō (viewpoint) course.

It is a fresh, cool morning. A sign points us towards the “Arupus Observatory”, bringing to mind a large dome housing an outsize telescope. Sounds good. Might it even have a vending machine with canned coffee, I wonder…?

Such hopes are soon dashed. The “Observatory” turns out to be a small patch of level ground with a panorama table on a stone plinth – exactly the kind of furnishing that the Hyakumeizan author repeatedly excoriated. Although he might have moderated his stance in this case. For a truly magnificent panorama faces us, floating out there on a sea of silvery mist. And any visitor would want to know which mountain is which.

Our eyes track northwards over the island hulks of Ontake and Norikura, the former distinguishing itself by the twin jets of steam still rising from its southern ridgeline. Then over the Hodaka massif, the great cutout of the Dai-Kiretto, the pimple of Yari and the rugged piles of Tsurugi and Tateyama. Over there somewhere is a peak called Ōnanji, rhyming with the one we’re heading for on Hakusan. And this is not the only place name shared by the two sacred mountains...

Having already seen this vista several times, the Sensei has started on up the ridge before I can finish downloading the scene into my weatherbeaten Nikon. Ah yes, now it comes back to me. We were hurrying to reach Murodō before anybody slips into hypo-caffeinia…

The ridge takes us up onto a broad tableland, through which a stony path weaves between clumps of creeping pine. The scenery is about to become monotonous when the Sensei waves me over to a flat stone. The upper surface is crowded with motionless grasshoppers, who show no sign of concern that the heads of two humans are bent closely over them.

We wait a few minutes, but the entranced insects give no sign as to why they have convened here, well above two thousand metres – whether to meet, mate, greet or eat each other. We walk on having failed to solve another of this Meizan’s manifold mysteries…

Arriving at the hut complex of Murodō, we walk straight into the vestibule. Behind the counter is a sign telling us that today’s coffee is Nicaraguan. This looks promising. The attendant picks up an insulated pot and pours a life-restoring black stream into two paper cups, which we take to a table outside. Ah, the very aroma is invigorating. As for the taste, that would be balanced and smooth, with a mild, clean acidity, hinting at citrus or apple, with subtle undertones of vanilla or spice…

Enough already: it’s clear that coffee reviews are best left to bloggers who actually know what they’re talking about. Suffice it to say, that for a 500 yen a cup, the Murodō serves a brew that wouldn’t go down amiss in one of those high-collar Ginza or Umeda coffee establishments.

Thus fortified, we set out again and tackle the zig-zag path up to Hakusan’s okumiya (inner sanctuary) on the main summit of Gozenpō. 

Although the spot height of 2,702 metres remains officially unchanged, the summit seems to drift higher with each of our visits. Clouds have meanwhile rolled over the Northern Alps and a few outriders from the main pack are starting to waft our way.

As Gozenpō is lively with visitors, we carry on along the ridge, before descending towards Midori-ga-ike. 

The crater lake has kept its usual viridian hue, but the fierce summer heat has dried up most of the smaller ponds within the old craters. 

As we slip through the shadow of a giant block of congealed lava, the Sensei observes that its horizontal striations look just like the marks left by a glacier. Or were they etched into the lava when it was extruded from some long-buried vent? And when was that? So many questions...

Votaries of Ōnanji, Hakusan’s northern peak, have to work a bit harder than those of Gozenpō. No manicured path leads to its summit. We scramble up a dusty ridge, occasionally putting hand to rock. Just as we arrive on top, an outriding cloud starts to spill over the flat summit from the east. 

We pass by a sturdy stone revetment, complete with a doglegged approach path. Hidden within it lurks the summit shrine. Winter must be a blast up here. We carry on to a small refuge hut, and sit down to lunch in the shelter of a rocky sill. From our island in the sky, we can see all the way to the coast, an unusual privilege for a summer afternoon. Soon enough, more clouds come in to take away the view.

A meizanologist's diary (139)

17 August: You can run, you may drive, but you can’t hide - from the summer heat, that is. At 6am in the Ichinose car park, at 830 metres above sea level, the air feels cool as we pull on our mountain boots. But the humidity has us sweating as soon as we start towards Chiburi-one, the ridge route up to Bessan, Hakusan’s “separate mountain”.

According to a book on Japan’s hundred most famous forests, here is as rich and varied a panoply of trees as you will see anywhere in the realm. Yet the lower woods are dark under their summer foliage and, besides, the hornets droning by dissuade us from hanging about. The Sensei says to ignore them. I do my best. Must admit, I find them even scarier than the b-word....

With relief, we leave the giant horse-chestnuts, oaks and katsura behind – it is probably safer to appreciate them at greater leisure later in the year – and we climb gradually into the clerestory of the beechwoods.

The sun has risen over the ridge, backlighting swarms of miniature dragonflies as they weave to and fro. A gap in the trees shows us that the clouds have already started to drift up and around Hakusan. 

Perched on grass stems in front of us are three dragonflies, large enough to have flown straight out of the Carboniferous. They seem to be admiring the view too.

Coming up to the refuge hut at 1,900 metres, the path weaves its way through thickets of ōshirabiso trees (Abies mariesii), many surmounted with fresh clusters of blue cones. A fragrance wafts from the trees, reminding me of early morning starts in midsummer at Kamikochi. 

We take a break in the hut’s shade, not forgetting to admire the first alpine flowers of the day, a scattering of matsumushi-sō (Scabiosa japonica).

Bessan, at 2,399 metres, is just high enough to be crowned with creeping pine, with its bright green cones. Lunch, taken in the shadow of the summit shrine’s retaining wall, consists of onigiri from an all-night Lawson outlet. 

Thus fortified, we start out on the ridge traverse towards Hakusan. The path soon takes us through a meadow of Hakusan bofu. This giant parsley-like plant seems to be favoured by an insect that looks like a wasp but probably isn’t.

Further on, the Sensei points out a colony of Hakusan kozakura – which would have turned the slope into a shimmering sheet of purple earlier in the summer, although the flowers are now over.

This sets me wondering how many flowers have “Hakusan” in their name. It turns out that the answer might be more than twenty (depending on whom you ask), thus leaving the runner-up, Rishiri – about eighteen – some way behind. Ibuki lags in third place with a mere dozen. I think of making this observation to the Sensei, but she would probably find it otiose. The San-Reizan (Three Sacred Mountains), of which Hakusan is one, do not stoop to vulgar comparisons. They simply preside over the rest…

Bessan, the savants say, really is a separate mountain – unlike Hakusan’s volcanic crown, it is made up of sedimentary rocks. At the midpoint of the ridge, these seem to be crumbling into the depths, taking stretches of the old path with them. We pay a bit more attention to our footwork here, rewarding ourselves later with a break beside a mountain tarn where the ridge widens again.

Before long, the Nanryū Hut comes into view, sitting on its plateau just beyond the gully dividing Hakusan from the junction ridge to Bessan. 

Altogether, says the Sensei’s navigation app, we’ve climbed 1,782 vertical metres today – which is quite enough for folk of our vintage. With an hour or so to while away before supper, there is time to sample the hut’s excellent library of Hakusan-related literature.

The books on offer come up with one surprise. I’d thought that Hakusan had been dormant since its last eruption in the second year of Manji (1659), but this is to reckon without the “anomaly” (ihen) of Shōwa 10. In March 1935, tall pillars of steam started jetting from a point about two kilometres from the summit. Earth tremors were felt in a village at the mountain’s foot.

Report on the 1935 Hakusan "anomaly" in the Hokkoku Shimbun.

Some feared that the disturbance heralded another major eruption but a local geologist thought otherwise. The fumaroles were more likely caused by recent torrential rainfall, bringing groundwater into contact with hot rocks. And the mountain consented to agree with him. Since then Hakusan has settled back into its habitual somnolence, except for the occasional seismic murmuring.

We are summoned to dinner by a public announcement over the hut’s loudspeakers. 

Looking out from our table over the peaceful verdure of the Nanryū plateau, one would never suspect that this mountain could blast steam jets a hundred metres up into the winter sky. Well, there are more things in this Meizan than are dreamt of in our philosophy. How will it surprise us next…?