Tales of past and present (6)

Continued: a talk about foreign explorers of Japan's mountains, then and now.

As remarked in the previous post, it took a long time for foreigners to recover their enthusiasm for the Japanese mountains. When they did, new highways and Shinkansen routes may have played a part: in the late 1980s and 1990s, the Japan Alps started to come within the regular weekend range of big city dwellers for the first time.

Paul Hunt atop Shiomi-dake (3,046.9 metres).
Illustration from Paul Hunt's Hiking in Japan.

In 1988, at long last, a new English-language guidebook came out. This was Paul Hunt’s Hiking in Japan. Hunt was well qualified to write on the mountains, having graduated in geology and later working as a meteorologist. He came to Japan in 1978 to work with a team exploring for oil in the Japan Sea (following in the prospecting footsteps of Benjamin Smith Lyman). In the introduction to his book, Hunt mentions several mountain-related associations including the JAC, the Friends of the Earth, and the International Adventure Club.

The guidebook that launched a thousand mountain trips ...

The International Adventure Club, Hunt says, is "a group of foreigners and Japanese who organize hiking, rock climbing, and skiing trips out of Tokyo. They have monthly meetings in Tokyo and issue a newsletter. They can be contacted through Dave Parry or Yuko Nakano…."

In Early Heisei or thereabouts, in the early 1990s, a number of foreign climbers must have phoned Dave or Yuko – indeed, I was one of them. This small group had a smattering of experience in the European Alps and we wanted to try out some routes in the Japan Alps – somehow we had got to hear about Takidani and Kita-dake Buttress. In my case, it was a photo in Nihon Tozan Taikei, volume 7, that set me going …

Alpine Workman (and civil servant) inspects the Dome in Takidani.

The next step was suggested by a Japanese friend who had recently joined us. His idea was for our alpine group to join the Japan Workers’ Alpine Federation (Rōsan, or the Nihon Kinrōsha Sangakurenmei). This we did, in early 1992, becoming one of about 70 clubs in the Shinjuku bloc, and after that we called ourselves – or at least I did – the Alpine Workmen.

Alpine Workman on Tsurugi-dake, Genjiro Ridge.

From that time onwards, our club calendar was probably little different from any other Rōsan club: November: winter skills refreshment climb on Mt Fuji; from January, yama-skiing, March: snow training at Tanigawa-dake, perhaps with a climb of Kuro-one; Golden Week: gasshuku on skis, eg Tsurugi-dake, Genjirō-one; June, rock-climbing and sawa-nobori, August; alpine climbing gasshuku, perhaps on Tsurugi D-Face … and so on.

Alpine Workmen taking liquid refreshment in Akagi-sawa.

A sociologist might have had an interesting time with us. Our founder president was rising up the ranks of a well-known machinery maker, our secretary helped to run an American bank’s credit card scheme, while other members worked for MITI, universities, a law firm, an international food company, an oil company, and so on. If there was one common theme, it might just be that most of us came originally from the countryside (Shikoku, Oxford, Christchurch NZ etc). But even that wasn’t true for everybody – one member came from New York, and her father had helped to build the Apollo Lunar Module at Grumman Aerospace.

I used to think of us as being part of the “present”. Of course, that can’t be true any longer. Although the IAC itself has successor organisations in both the Kanto and Kansai, our own alpine association ceased to exist decades ago. So we are in every sense history, just like the Mountain Goats of Kobe, about whom we knew nothing at that time. 

So what is going on right now?

(To be continued)

Images and ink (54)

Image: Everest in winter, by courtesy of Alpine Light & Structure.

Ink: The Magic Mountain (1924) by Thomas Mann, translated by H T Lowe-Porter.

One afternoon in February, the gentlemen arranged an excursion to Monstein, some hour and a half from the village by sleigh. … The cold was severe, the mountains misty. The road, a narrow, railingless shelf between mountain wall and abyss, rose steeply into the fir forests. They disentangled themselves from their wraps and climbed out in front of the little Monstein inn, that called itself a Kurhaus, and went on foot a few steps further to get the view south-west toward the Stulsergrat. The gigantic wall, three thousand metres high, was shrouded in vapours. Only one jagged tooth reared itself heavenward out of the mist — superterrestrial, Valhallan, far and faint and awesomely inaccessible. Hans Castorp admired it immensely, and summoned the others to follow suit. It was he who with due respect dubbed it inaccessible — and afforded Settembrini the chance of saying that this particular rock was considerably frequented. And, in general, that there were few spots where man had not set his foot. That was rather tall talk, retorted Naphta; and mentioned Mount Everest, which to date had icily refused to surrender to man’s importunity, and seemed likely to continue to do so. The humanist was put out. They returned to the Kurhaus, before which stood other unharnessed sleighs beside their own.

Tales of past and present (5)

Continued: a talk about foreign explorers of Japan's mountains, then and now.

The Great Tokyo Earthquake marked a kind of boundary in history. It’s difficult to generalise what effect it had on mountaineers, Japanese or foreign. That said, it’s hard to find any full-length book written by a foreign mountaineer in Japan after 1923, at least in English.

Murray Walton (centre) with companion and guide at Yarisawa.
Illustration from Scrambles in Japan and Formosa.

The prominent exception is Scrambles in Japan and Formosa published in 1934 by W. H. Murray Walton (b. 1890). Murray Walton climbed Niitaka-yama on Taiwan, the “new highest mountain” in the Japanese Empire, traversed the Southern Japan Alps from end to end, and made climbs in the Central and Northern Alps too. 

Daihasenzan, a mountain of Taiwan.
Illustration from Scrambles in Japan and Formosa.

Like his acquaintance Walter Weston,  Murray Walton was a missionary and was fascinated by the Ontake religion, visiting the mountain three times. He knew and climbed with several prominent MGK members (for example, the Reverend W H Elwin, and the American diplomat Eugene Dooman) but doesn’t mention the club in his book. On the other hand, he was a proud member of the JAC for at least 15 years.

A seance on Ontake.
Illustration from Scrambles in Japan and Formosa. 

After Murray Walton, foreign climbers in Japan go very quiet. Was that due to the earthquake or Japan’s growing international isolation? Or did foreigners simply stop writing books? It seems that the drop in activity was real. Kojima Usui, who wrote the foreword to Murray Walton’s book, says this: “In recent years there have been, however, fewer foreign residents interested in mountaineering. Their enthusiasm too seems to be decreasing.”

One possible explanation comes from the scholar-diplomat Edwin Reischauer, who as the son of missionaries, was brought up in Japan. As he recalls in My Life Between Japan and America:

During the 1930s, when the police were becoming increasingly suspicious of all foreigners as potential spies and one was constantly subjected to police interrogation while traveling, my birth in Japan served as a form of passport. A policeman, after dutifully questioning my identity, what I was doing, and where I was going, all of which was already recorded in his notebook, would then frequently ask me about my attitude toward the Japanese government or the current aggression Japan was engaged in on the continent. 

Indeed, the enthusiasm of foreign mountaineers took a long time to rekindle. In the 1950s and 1960s, Japan saw an enormous resurgence of hiking and alpinism, especially after the first ascent of Manaslu in May 1956.

May 9, 1956: first ascent of Manaslu by a JAC expedition.

But where were the foreigners during this so-called Manaslu boom? In English, at least, I can’t find much writing about the Japanese mountains during these decades. 

Well-thumbed copy of the JNTO guide, with a roughly contemporaneous carabiner.

And there was certainly no up-to-date guidebook to Japan’s mountains for foreigners, although the official Japan National Tourist Office guide did its best to include mountain-related advice. My copy, dated February 1975, recommends the Ochūdo-meguri on Mt Fuji as “a delightful summer excursion”. I hope that bit has been updated in more recent editions, or somebody is in for a shock.

A first sign of renewed foreign interest in Japan’s mountains came from Oscar Benl (1914–86), a professor of Japanese literature, who translated Inoue Yasushi’s Hyōheki into German as Die Eiswand in 1979. Benl studied at Tokyo University before the war, and submitted his doctorate on the ideals of Zeami, the noh master, in 1943.

Professor Benl also translated works by Murasaki Shikibu, Yoshida Kenkō, Shiga Naoya, Ibuse Masuji, Kawabata Yasunari, Dazai Osamu, Mishima Yukio, Tanizaki Jun'ichirō, Funabashi Seiichi and Abe Kōbō. He was Germany’s retort to Donald Keene. Why did he pick Hyōheki in particular? (He translated Inoue’s Tempyō no iraka (The rooftile of Tempyō) and Ryōjū (The hunting gun) too). Perhaps it was because his first academic post was in Munich, the capital city of German alpinism. But this is just a guess…

(Continued)

First steps to climbing (15): "loose rocks play strange tricks"

Advice for tyro mountaineers from the nineteen-twenties

It has often been asked whether a knowledge of geology is any use in climbing. Authorities, mostly theorists, differ on this point, but the writer has found it of no service.

The crucial pitch on Moss Ghyll, Scafell - the lower figure is
A D Godley, Fellow and Tutor of Magdalen College, Oxford.
Photo by the Abraham Brothers (detail), reprinted in A Hankinson, Camera on the Crags.

In many climbs with famous geologists the science has never asserted itself in any practical way. Loose structures certainly interest them most, and the fact that occasionally no stone has been left unturned in their efforts summitwards may prove trying to those below in a crumbling gully.

Truth to tell, loose sections on a mountain, big or little, may occur unexpectedly to the most skilled scientist, and the climber needs all his skill and care on such places. No thoughts can be spared for fossils or faults – only faults of judgment matter. Great discernment is necessary in the use of loose holds. The general plan is to distribute the weight as much as possible on as many holds as are available.

Loose rocks play strange tricks, and the beginner should, as far as possible, avoid notorious places. Large pieces as big as a cenotaph will frequently stand firm whilst one man mounts over them and the following climber may bring down the whole mass.

References

From George D. Abraham, First Steps to Climbing, Mills & Boon, Limited, London, 1923.

Tales of past and present (4)

Continued: a talk about foreign explorers of Japan's mountains, then and now.

Among the many foreigners to fall under Mt Fuji's spell, Frederick Starr (1858–1933) may have been the most enigmatic. Starr was a lecturer and professor at the University of Chicago for more than thirty years. 

Frederick Starr

As an anthropologist and ethnographer, he first came to Japan in 1904 because he’d taken an interest in the Ainu. In addition to studying them, however, he wrote up a short biography (1916) of Matsuura Takeshirō, who explored Ezo (now Hokkaidō) in the mid-nineteenth century.

During subsequent Japan trips, Starr started collecting charms (ofuda) and votive slips (senjafuda or nōsatsu). This earned him the nickname of Ofuda-Hakase (お札博士). It also led him to Mt Fuji. He walked around its foot in 1913, climbed to the summit in 1917 and 1919, and in the same year walked the Ochūdo-meguri – all this in the cotton robes of a pilgrim.

In 1924, Starr published his book, Fujiyama: The Sacred Mountain of Japan – even now, this is one of the few full-length books about Mt Fuji by a foreign author. In the frontispiece photo, we see him with Shibata Reiichi (1840–1920), the twelfth leader of Shintō Jikkōkyō, a Fuji-centred sect which traces its origins back to Fujidō, founded by Hasegawa Kakugyō (1541–1646). 

Frederick Starr with Shibata Reiichi.
Illustration from Fujiyama.

This suggests that Starr went to considerable efforts to research his book, which aimed to reveal “an attitude of mind” towards Mt Fuji and perhaps all sacred mountains. But the book is dedicated not to Shibata but to Sogabe Ikko. 

Portrait of Sogabe Ikko.
Illustration from Fujiyama.

Sogabe had guided Starr on all his ascents of Mt Fuji – the two had met at a study group, the Nōsatsu-kai. Sogabe loved Mt Fuji and had climbed it almost a hundred times, we are told, and he probably provided Starr with some of his more unique material. Sogabe had started writing his own book on Mt Fuji in 1919, with a view to summing up his lifelong researches into the mountain.

"Lake Gamanaka (sic) seen through the rift in clouds".
Illustration and original caption from Fujiyama.

Sogabe was generous with this knowledge. On August 31, 1923 he called on Starr, saying that he would like to show his manuscript to Starr. They agreed to meet again a month later and spend the whole day poring over Sogabe’s manuscript.

That meeting never took place: on September 1, the great earthquake destroyed Sogabe’s house along with most of Tokyo and Yokohama. Sogabe was burned to death while trying to rescue his manuscript from the fire that ensued. 

Monument to Frederick Starr, Mt Fuji Subashiri Route.

Starr survived the earthquake, his hotel in Yokohama having survived the initial shock, and lived on until 1933. There is a monument to him above the Sengen Shrine on the Mt Fuji Subashiri route. Yet so many questions remain unanswered. Who was Sogabe? What kind of a book was he trying to write? And should we see Fujiyama as an attempt by Starr to rescue something of Sogabe's legacy?

(Continued)

Endpapers of Frederick Starr's Fujiyama.

First steps to climbing (14): "needs the utmost coolness"

Advice for tyro mountaineers from the nineteen-twenties

In fact, it will be obvious that this ready alertness is especially necessary during Alpine ascents – it is the key to success with safety. Presence of mind in sudden emergency, such as the appearance of falling stones, is of tremendous importance.

"Hold tight! A sudden slip into a snow-masked crevasse on the Jungfrau."
Original caption and photo from First Steps to Climbing. 

There is one startling event which though an ever-present risk, seldom happens in snow and ice climbing. That is a serious slip on a steep slope. A whole party may be dragged out of their steps, and with unnerving suddenness all the probabilities of tragedy are present.

To arrest the downward rush great resourcefulness is needed. It is absolutely no use to try to stop oneself by plunging the pick end of the axe into a hard snow-slope. It will instantly be dragged from the hands and left up above.

The proper mode of arresting progress is to grip the head of the ice-axe firmly and lie on it about chest-high, meanwhile gradually using the pick as a brake. Whole parties have been brought to a halt by this seemingly simple method, which to apply in actual practice needs the utmost coolness and ready skill.

These latter traits, added to a sporting unselfishness, seem a heritage of the Briton, and their reality is never more in evidence than in the sport of mountaineering. Alpinists of all nations appreciate these points, and it behoves our countrymen to uphold the worthy and glorious traditions of the past.

References

From George D. Abraham, First Steps to Climbing, Mills & Boon, Limited, London, 1923.

Tales of past and present (3)

Continued: a talk about foreign explorers of Japan's mountains, then and now.

Of course, clubs are never the whole story – just as Kojima’s companion on Yari, Okano Kinjirō, never joined the JAC, so some foreigners had no interest in joining a club. One such lone wolf was Thomas Orde-Lees (1877–1958). 

Today we would call him an ‘adrenalin junkie’. After serving in the Royal Marines, he signed up for Shackleton’s disastrous Antarctic expedition. This sailed from London, in August 1914, just as Walter Weston was about to traverse Ōtenshō-dake.

Having survived the four-month wait to be rescued on Elephant Island, Orde-Lees joined the Balloon Corps on the Western Front. By the end of the First World War, he was an officer in the Royal Flying Corps, where he became an advocate for the use of parachutes. To prove their effectiveness, he once jumped from Tower Bridge into the River Thames.

Parachute pioneer: Orde-Lees plummets from Tower Bridge.

After the war, he came to Japan to teach parachuting techniques at the Imperial Navy’s Kasumigaura airbase. It was during this assignment that he thought of climbing Mt Fuji in winter – under the impression that he would be the first to do so. Clearly, he was ill-informed: that honour already belonged to Nonaka Itaru (1867–1955), who had reached the top as long ago as February 1895. And, very probably, other foreigners had preceded Orde-Lees too.

Like Nonaka before him, Orde-Lees failed on his first attempt, after he and a companion met with a “hurricane”. This was in January 1922. On February 10 they came back, dragging a home-made sledge made from the wreckage of a crashed aeroplane. 

Overnighting at the Tarōbō hut, they climbed the mountain on snowshoes as far as the sixth station and thereafter on home-made crampons screwed to the soles of their boots. The ice-axes came from a shop called Mimatsu at 8 yen apiece and they used parachute harness tape as a makeshift alpine rope.

Avro 504K, as cannibalised by Thomas Orde-Lees.
Image courtesy of Kovozavody Prostejov. 

The climb to the summit took twelve hours. To mark their high point, they tied to a rock near the summit hut the “aluminium foot-rest from the rudder-bar of an AVRO aeroplane …”

Avro 504K: arrow indicates the "aluminium footrest from the rudder-bar".

So there is a small mystery – has anybody ever found that “aluminium foot-rest” near the top of the Gotemba-guchi on Fuji-san? If so, I’m sure that it should be in a museum somewhere.

By the way, the account of these Fuji climbs was reprinted in Inaka vol 16, although it first appeared in the Japan Chronicle of February 19, 1922 – I doubt if Orde-Lees was a member of the MGK.

This was a somewhat frivolous digression. But there is a serious point to it. Orde-Lees’s Mt Fuji climb was a byproduct of the Anglo-Japanese Alliance (1902–23). It was the military cooperation implicit in the Alliance that brought him to Japan. We like to think that our mountaineering floats somehow untethered above the lower world. But mountaineers are, in fact, swept along in the current of history like everybody else. 

Rock pinnacles on Myogi.
Plates from Douglas Freshfield's report on his Japan tour.
Courtesy of the Alpine Journal.

Speaking of that Alliance, between 1900 and 1923 no fewer than three of the British Alpine Club’s Presidents visited Japan, where of course the Japanese Alpine Club gave them a warm welcome. The most prominent, Douglas Freshfield (1845–1934) made a visit in October 1913 and climbed Myōgi. He too used Murray’s guidebook and consulted Walter Weston. Permit me to share some of his pictures…

(Continued)