Uncertain of the answer, the Sensei and I are carrying both snowshoes and crampons for our early (or late) season ascent of Fujisha-ga-dake. Its summit rises a mere 943 metres above sea-level, but is far-famed among meizanologists for being the first that the Hyakumeizan author Fukada Kyūya ever attained.
After a first few metres on hard-frozen snow, we opt for the crampons. A little later, we overtake a man who has chain spikes on his boots: he seems to find them insufficiently reassuring for the conditions. The wind is cold yet buds abound on the dancing branches over our heads. Spring hovers in the balance.
We take a break just where the mixed woods give way to the beech forest, at around 550 metres. The cornices are starting to rift away from the ridge, crevassing the snow ahead. Giving them a wide berth, we make for the broad summit slope and wend our way upwards between the large snowpits around each tree. Like gravity wells around a black hole, these are now deep enough to cause embarrassment if fallen into.
The summit is a big, bare snowdome, not unlike a miniature Mt Blanc.
There is no sign of the panorama table dedicated to the memory of the Hyakumeizan author here. It must be buried at least a metre deep in the summit drift. That is probably how he would have liked it: “You never saw such things in the old days,” he growls in his Senjō-dake chapter, “and speaking for myself, I prefer my summits unencumbered with them."
Anyway, we need no panorama table to find the direction of Hakusan. Over there to the east, our local Meizan is hiding her head, but the Sensei waits and waits until the twin peaks of Onanji and Gozenpō show themselves through a brief rift in the clouds.
Meanwhile, I’m inspecting some insects that are crawling hither and thither over the snow. Since they seem to be wingless, or at least flightless, they must live here. As so often, the chronicler and natural historian Suzuki Bokushi (1770-1842) got here first in his Snow Country Tales:
“Snow lies deep on Mount Omei in Sichuan of the land of Tang, even in summer. The Mountains and Seas Classic records the existence of an insect called the snow bug living in the snows of that peak. I am sure this is the truth, for we have snow insects in Echigo as well. They begin to make their appearance in the snow at the beginning of the year, and when the snow melts they, too, disappear, their life cycle bound to the snows…”
That said, the yukimushi I’m looking at here don’t seem quite like the ones portrayed by Suzuki (see above). Wikipedia, consulted later, identifies them as Eocapnia nivalis (sekkei-kawagera). They are “thought to eat” bacteria in the snow, and prefer it cold – so much so, that they will die if picked up in the hand. Fortunately, I haven’t put this to the test; it’s quite clear that the insects are scurrying away even from the warmth reflected from my clothing …
Indeed, the warmth is gaining on us. Inspired by her glimpse of Hakusan, the Sensei leads the way to Fujisha’s true summit. Moving for a moment too close to the ridgeline, I put my stick right through the cornice. We need to be careful now: the snow that was firm as a pavement an hour ago is now letting us down into knee-deep sinkholes almost every other step. Spring is winning.
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