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 show 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…?