Alas, matters may not be that simple. In his One Hundred and Fifty Mountains of Fukui, Masunaga Michio, the late doyen of our mountaineering community, says that the name was originally Nyuugatake (Cinnabar Peak), referring to a crimson dyestuff found hereabouts. And only later was it corrupted to Onigatake (Ogre, Eiger or Demon Peak).
Be that as it may, the fog purges all hint of colour out of the landscape. The woods and villages look like some silvery inkwash painting by Sesshu. Parking the car, we walk into the inevitable cryptomeria grove at the mountain’s foot. Turning to slush, yesterday’s snowfall cascades onto our heads from the branches.
A steep runnel full of melting snow leads upwards. The rocks are blocky, but since the Sensei has sensibly indicated wellies for this sawa-like ascent, some care is needed. Conditions were probably dryer in November 1940, when some local enthusiasts climbed up here and decided to form the Fukui Mountaineering Club – of which Masunaga-san would in time be a long-serving president.
This is Sunday, so we have plenty of company. A youth passes us on his way down, and then overtakes us again on his second climb up.
Meanwhile, we overtake a grizzled veteran who is pausing for breath at a viewpoint. And well he might: right opposite is Mt Hino, who is posing with a diaphanous cloud around its midriff, as befits the “Echizen Fuji”.
From the snow-covered summit, at all of 533 metres, we look out southwards to Wakasa Bay gleaming like a mirror in the hazy air. Then inland over the plains and past a goodly array of Masunaga’s hundred and fifty peaks to snowy Hakusan.
Taking in this view, a far more expansive one than the Ogre’s modest height would seem to merit, I start to understand why the founders of the Fukui Mountaineering Club chose Onigatake for their inaugural ascent…
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