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 shows 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…?

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3 April We’ve climbed Arashima-dake in spring and autumn, but our winter attempt back in January didn’t get far. We’re hoping for better luck in this in-between season, when spring is starting to tinge the lower woods with green but snow still covers the summit ridges.

Alas, the snow has long since melted off a new sign enforcing one-way traffic on the ‘up’ and ‘down’ paths – an unwelcome byproduct of Arashima’s status as a Hyakumeizan peak. Excessive signage is a bête noire of Alex Kerr in his recent book on Hidden Japan:

Despite being known as the land of aesthetics, the physical environment of Japan could better be called the land of junk. It’s overwhelming, all enveloping. Tourists, Japan and foreign, simply don’t see it because they’re so focused on finding what’s beautiful. That’s a credit to their love of Japan. But the junk is there nonetheless.

We are soon distracted by an elegant slime mould growing on the path – I hope it will have the sense to complete its reproductive cycle before the Hyakumeizan-bagging hordes trample it flat later in the season. Or perhaps it’s lying in wait for them.

Now we’re climbing into the beechwoods. And that is an impressive burl on one of the trees – common enough in old forests, so Google says. It looks like the obi on a well-fitted kimono....

We meet a first snowdrift on Mochi-ga-kabe, the step that leads up to the summit ridge, but don’t deem it worthy of our crampons. That’s as well, because there’s still a hundred metres of dry, bouldery path to negotiate above it.

Nevertheless, we meet a mountain photographer coming down who seems to prefer crunching over the rocks in his new-looking climbing irons. Dry tooling is all the rage now, they say.

A steep ramp, which we tackle with crampons, leads us to the summit ridge, with aery views over to Hakusan. Even if we couldn’t identify our famous local ‘white mountain’, we would be sorted by the computer-generated panorama table that awaits us on the summit.

No need to invoke Alex Kerr for a rant here: the Hyakumeizan author expressed his views on such fixtures decades ago:

You never saw such things in the old days and, speaking for myself, I prefer my summits unencumbered with them. (Senjо̄-dake, One Hundred Mountains of Japan)

But the junk is there nonetheless.

Back in the bare woods, we are coming down the path as fast as our ageing knees will allow when we hear an odd clapping sound, somewhat guttural. I take it to be a large bird, pre-flighting its wings. Or, the Sensei says, it might be the discreet cough that a polite bear utters to remind visitors of his presence.

Birds or a courteous bear? A true Meizan is an inexhaustible font of mountain mysteries.

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2 April (cont.): ideally, one shouldn't visit the Miidera just as its famous cherry trees come into full bloom. I mean, the temple has hundreds of Important Cultural Properties, and how can you pay due attention to them with all that sakura in your face? Nevertheless, the Miidera lies on the way home and my Japan Rail Pass turns into a pumpkin at midnight. So it’s now or never…

Miidera, or the Onjō-ji, features as the eighth destination in Alex Kerr’s latest book, Hidden Japan: An Astonishing World of Thatched Villages, Ancient Shrines and Primeval Forests. Since the temple is “hidden in plain sight”, the taxi driver has no difficulty in finding it – it would have been an easy walk from the station, but every minute counts now that we’re halfway through the afternoon.

Without a millisecond to waste, I walk through the Daimon Gate – repurposed from Hideyoshi’s Fushimi Castle – and up the stone steps to the courtyard in front of the Kondo. This great hall was built in 1599 with funds donated by Hideyoshi’s widow. Regime change seems to have done this temple no harm at all.

The Kondo, Kerr writes, is “one of the most splendid Momoyama buildings in existence …expansive and strong, yet delicate and light.” 

Alas, the late afternoon shadows, not to mention the distracting highlights of the flowering trees, reduce the otherwise graceful hall to a black hulk. So I give up on architectural appreciation, shuck off my shoes, and go inside.

Halfway round our clockwise shuffle around the hall, we come to a dark corner. And there, as if carefully segregated from the fine and polished examples of classical statuary all about, are seven figures that look as if they were roughly hewn out of a discarded log. The labels identify each one as a “dragon king” (or queen), yet each wears a gentle and engaging smile.

Image courtesy of Miidera1200 (Instagram)

I make a slight bow in their direction. This is by way of an apology. In One Hundred Mountains of Japan, the English version of Fukada Kyūya’s Nihon Hyakumeizan, mention is made of a wandering monk called Enkū (1632–1695), said to have been the first to climb Kasa-ga-dake in the Northern Alps: “This is the monk,” says the translation, “who with a hatchet carved an image of the Buddha that latterly became famous.”

One image? That should have read thousands. Enkū himself vowed to carve 120,000 religious effigies during his lifetime, and he may well have done so. Ten a day could have sufficed, one scholar has calculated. At any rate, something like 4,320 of his sculptures survive. These include the seven in front of me, which were rediscovered as recently as 1963, in a dusty niche above the Miidera’s revolving sutra repository.

As this history suggests, both Enkū and his works fell into obscurity after his death. It was only in the 1930s that scholars started to take an interest in him, and not until the late 1950s – just before Fukada started writing Nihon Hyakumeizan – that big museums began to exhibit Enkū’s statues.

As a result, Enkū’s origins are difficult to establish. He grew up in Mino Province, in the southern reaches of what is today’s Gifu Prefecture. When he was seven years old, his mother may or may not have perished in a great flood. Later he took religious orders in the Tendai sect and set out on mountain pilgrimages in all parts of the realm.

A visit to Hakusan in June 1679 seems to have been particularly revelatory. While Enkū was meditating beneath a waterfall, the Hakusan deity appeared to him and announced “Here lives Shaka.” From this time forward, says Julian Daizan Skinner, a modern Rinzai Zen master, “his work is considered to take on a new depth and excellence.”

Curiously, it was in the very next month that Enkū came here to the Onjō-ji and received the "Succession Lineage of the Buddha-nature Eternal Vajra Castle" from the hands of the Great Abbot Dōei himself. This, and we seem to be on firm historical ground here, was on July 5th of the seventh year of Enpō (1679). The Hōryū-ji in Nara had bestowed a similar honour on him some years before.

As Alex Kerr notes, Enkū did not often seek out the great prelates of Kyoto and Nara. He preferred to make the rounds of country villages, offering his services as a traditional healer or performing ceremonies to end a drought. However, Kerr suggests, he may have made an exception for the Miidera on account of its “mystical Mikkyō teachings”. Enkū visited the temple again in August 1689 and received a further transmission, this time from the Abbot Son’ei.

Tradition has it that Enkū ended his days far from the big cities. Returning to his hometown in Gifu, he had a cave dug into the banks of the Nagara River and entered into his final meditation there – at the very same place where his mother had been swept away in a great flood so many years before.

By the time I leave the Kondo, the sun has set behind the bulk of Hiei-zan. At least the sakura are less distracting, now that the shadows have muted them. 

There’s just time for a last quick circuit of the temple grounds. Last of all, I pass the sacred spring which gives the Onjō-ji the name that everybody knows it by: Miidera, the temple of the three wells. 

Now it really is time to run for that evening Thunderbird. Only hours are left on my well-worn Rail Pass...