Sanjūsangen-zan is an 844 metres-high eminence that sits on the prefectural border between Fukui and Shiga Prefectures. What an evocative name that is. It links the mountain with one of Kyoto’s most storied temples – the Sanjūsangen-dō, founded in 1164 by none other than Taira no Kiyomori (1118-1181), the overlord who first brought martial rule to Japan. And then, for his sins, died a fiery death from an unquenchable fever.
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| The fever of Taira no Kiyomori Woodprint from the Fitzwilliam Museum collection |
But does the Mountain of the Thirty-Three Bays – a literal rendition of Sanjūsangen-zan (三十三間山) – really have anything to do with this temple? Sometimes there may be less to a mountain name than meets the eye, as Fukada Kyūya here and there points out in One Hundred Mountains of Japan. In the essay on Mizugaki-yama, for example, he casts doubt on whether this high-sounding name really had such exalted roots:
When our ancestors named mountains, they certainly did not trouble themselves to consider mountaineering organizations looking for titles for their magazines. Far from being inspiring, the names they chose were extremely down-to-earth. Taking their cue from a mountain's color or shape or state, they came up with names like Spear (Yari), Red Peak (Aka-dake), or Landslide (Ōkuzure). Or they borrowed from the implements in their daily round, as in Basket (Zaru), Saddle (Kura), or Screen (Byōbu).
So, the Hyakumeizan author suggests, Mizugaki’s name probably had little to do with the “inner sanctuary” that its written form suggests. Instead, it may have started out as a corruption of “mitsunagi”, a word indicating where three ridges run together.
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| Mizugaki-yama: probably not an inner sanctuary Image by courtesy of Σ64 (via Wikipedia) |
Hijiri-dake, a three-thousander in Japan’s Southern Alps gets the same sort of take-down. “Who could fail to be intrigued by Hijiri, the Peak of the Saint?” asks Fukada at the start of his essay, adding that “it is a name that befits this splendid mountain.” Alas, he is merely setting us up for disappointment:
This is not to say that all of Fukada’s mountains take their names from workaday tools or obvious geographical features. Some names enshrine their peak’s religious significance, as in Daibōsatsu, Nantai, Ryōgami, Yakushi-dake and Zao. Others may echo a folk legend, like those of Shiomi-dake and perhaps Naeba-san. And some are simply obscure: nobody can really explain how Tsukuba and Gassan got their names, although oddly both seem to incorporate the moon.
So where does that leave us with Sanjūsangen-zan? Is it a corruption of some local dialect word, or is it really linked to that Kyoto temple? If you prefer the latter story, a glance at YamaKei’s gazetteer of Japanese mountains gives grounds for hope:
You know, if YamaKei’s write-up isn’t historically attested, then it deserves to be. You could imagine that, one day, a young savant might take isotope samples from the wooden columns in the Sanjūsangen-dō and trace them right back to their terroir on the slopes of the Thirty-Three Bay Mountain. Or, on second thoughts, perhaps the savants should keep their hands off this one. Some legends are best left uninvestigated.
Being for the most part pragmatic, rough-and-ready folk, we Japanese name most of our mountains for everyday objects that are brought to mind by the actual and obvious shape of the terrain. Elegant, literary appellations are correspondingly rare. This Hijiri-dake is no exception. A gully runs up into the mountain from the upper reaches of the Ōi river. As it is necessary to sidle along ledges ("hezuru") to get through this dangerous gorge, the place was called "hezuri-sawa". Corrupted into "hijiri", this name was afterwards taken by the entire mountain. This, at least, was the explanation that I remember reading in a book by Kanmuri Matsujirō …
This is not to say that all of Fukada’s mountains take their names from workaday tools or obvious geographical features. Some names enshrine their peak’s religious significance, as in Daibōsatsu, Nantai, Ryōgami, Yakushi-dake and Zao. Others may echo a folk legend, like those of Shiomi-dake and perhaps Naeba-san. And some are simply obscure: nobody can really explain how Tsukuba and Gassan got their names, although oddly both seem to incorporate the moon.
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| View of Sanjusangen-zan Photo courtesy of Yama-to-Keikoku |
So where does that leave us with Sanjūsangen-zan? Is it a corruption of some local dialect word, or is it really linked to that Kyoto temple? If you prefer the latter story, a glance at YamaKei’s gazetteer of Japanese mountains gives grounds for hope:
The unusual name of the mountain is said to derive from the fact that the building timbers of the Sanjusangendō in Kyoto were felled here. It is likely that the lumber felled on the mountain was first transported by the Amasukawa River and then drawn over the low Mizusaka Pass to Lake Biwa. Even today, old beech and mizunara oak forests remain on the Fukui Prefecture side of Sanjusangen-zan, reminding us of long ago when the trees were felled.
You know, if YamaKei’s write-up isn’t historically attested, then it deserves to be. You could imagine that, one day, a young savant might take isotope samples from the wooden columns in the Sanjūsangen-dō and trace them right back to their terroir on the slopes of the Thirty-Three Bay Mountain. Or, on second thoughts, perhaps the savants should keep their hands off this one. Some legends are best left uninvestigated.
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