... when – what the heck is that? – a monstrous excrescence looms up at the end of the valley we’re heading into. Striped with snow in all its south-facing gullies, and completely out of scale with the surrounding landscape, this incredible bulk suggests a half-inflated balloon already tugging at its moorings. This has to be Daisen: no other candidate is possible. The name means “big mountain” in local dialect and nothing else in this part of Japan comes close to its seventeen hundred metres.
26 March: fortunately there is no need to tackle all of those metres, since yesterday evening's bus up to Daisenji has disposed of a good half of them. Under a dripping canopy of beech, I set off into a morning fog at a quarter to seven – the hostelry was inflexible about an earlier breakfast. In this season, snow lies underfoot from the start but there’s no need for crampons until the slope steepens some way above the secluded pavilion of the Amida-dō.
The sun starts to break through the mist more or less at the treeline. And here the trees really do end: unlike on other high mountains, there is no upper tier of sporadic pines or silver birch above the beechwoods. I take a break at the first refuge hut, which is still half-buried, and by the time I’m on my way again the spring sunlight has already started to soften the snow.
A broad snow ridge leads up to the slanted tableland of Misen. Here the snow is thinner, and a sturdy boardwalk testifies to the erosive power of thousands of summer Hyakumeizan seekers.
The crampon-chewed planks lead past a patch of scruffy evergreens which turn out to be the much-vaunted kyaraboku grove. The Daisen Museum at the mountain's foot apostrophises it as follows:
The yew … forms vast pure forests of some eight hectares ... and because it is Japan’s largest pure forest, it is designated as a Special Natural Monument. The yew is said to be a variant type of yew, but while the height of many yews is more than 20m, the height of Japanese yew is 1 to 2m. The trunk of the Japanese yew seems to be creeping on the ground, so the community is just like a green carpet.
I’m up on Misen at about 9.30. The day is yet young, and the ridgeline looks navigable as far as Ken-ga-mine, the true summit, which is all of twenty metres higher than Misen. Indeed, another climber is coming back from that direction. But he wears a disenchanted look on his face and for good reason – at every other step he is sinking knee-deep into the porridge-like snow.
Trying my own luck, I go over a small peaklet and posthole my way down into the first big dip in the ridge. So far so good: judging by the footprints, the other climber didn’t get this far. Then the ridgeline narrows. A prod with the ice-axe rules out one alternative – to keep walking Blondin-style along the ridge crest. After hours in the broiling sun, the snow up there has degenerated into candyfloss. So what about cutting crabwise across the northward slope – I glance downwards: if the mushy snow gives way there, it will precipitate a handsome “tour of the north face”. And after a bit of reflection, I find myself in complete accord with the other climber – it's time to turn back.
Back on Misen, I’m starting to regret that late breakfast. On the other hand, there is now time to appreciate the view. Snowy Daisen floats above a sea of haze like an iceberg; the "kosa" from the continent cuts the summit ridge off from the lower world so that its wooded footings just dissolve into the murk below.
No other peaks rise above the charcoal line of the dust horizon: we are alone above a sea of vapour. People question whether it’s meaningful to pick out just one hundred mountains from all that Japan has to offer. But, if you insist on playing that game, then surely Daisen has to be one of them.
In the afternoon, I climb up the stone steps to the Daisenji's main temple hall. “It is a deeply evocative place,” says the Hyakumeizan author, and who am I to disagree. The courtyard is still a metre deep in snow so that the one other visitor, wearing shoes that are ill adapted to the conditions, has to mince his way back to safety. When he reaches me, he asks if I can take his photo with his mobile phone. We fall into conversation.
It turns out that he is a recently retired production engineer who is about to take up a voluntary role as the organiser of a sports event. But before starting on that project, he’s undertaken to visit all the twenty (or was that twenty-eight) famous shrines and temples of the Sanyōdō. And today he has completed his round. I nod sympathetically: we are all captives of our self-appointed quests ...
2 comments:
Ah my ole' stomping ground. You're a far braver man than I to take on that mountain in the snow. On my first ascent a few months after arriving in country, I, sans Japanese language ability, unknowingly followed that knife ridge for its full length, along Paul Hunt's 1980s course, duck-walking Chuck Berry-like in the high winds, fog obscuring sheer death on both sides.
I remember later looking back at those heights from my kitchen window in town, thinking, "well played Daisen". completely unaware of a thing called Hyakumeizan...
As always, thanks for reading Ted - and congratulations for completing the whole Daisen traverse. A glance at Paul Hunt's write-up confirms that the summit ridge(s) were alarmingly narrow even in his day (1988). Since then, rockfalls during the 2000 earthquake have apparently further undermined them. As for climbing Misen in the snow, however, I would imagine that it's far preferable to the crowds, the heat and the greasy trails of summer - quite safe too, given reasonable snow conditions. For the ridge, though, the snow has to be well frozen (at least for the likes of me).
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