After discovering the mountains in Chichibu, I began to frequent the Tanzawa range. It seems that many climbers of a generation older than mine trained in Tanzawa before moving on—almost inevitably—toward Tanigawadake and the Takidani of the Hotaka range.
I do not think I consciously followed that precedent, yet I, too, traced the well-worn path.
Close to Tokyo, Tanzawa offered numerous peaks, forests, grasslands, and valleys. It was an ideal place for stream climbing, basic rock practice, and pack-carrying training. Its accessibility made it perfect for overnight trips on night trains, or even long day trips, and I was drawn to how easily one could go there.
Looking back at my records from 1971 (I am impressed that I kept such careful notes in those days; later, both records and memories gradually became less distinct), I see that my outings were exclusively in Tanzawa.
My first trip there was with Mr. H, one of the companions who had taken me to Mount Kinpu. Our route was Okura Ridge → Mt. Hirugatake → Kumakizawa → Yushin. Among my fading memories, I still vividly recall the beautiful night view of Hadano seen from the Okura Ridge.
Later, I made my first solo traverse: Omote Ridge → Mt. Hirugatake → Hara-goya → Higashino. I also fondly remember inviting a friend and walking the route Omote Ridge → Mt. Hirugatake → Mt. Hinokiboramaru → Ishidate → Nakagawa. That friend, who appears with me in old photographs, passed away from cancer at a young age. It is now a memory from a distant past.
Then there was a training course on Mount Nabewari.
Gradually, my attention shifted toward the Mizunashi River area. Climbing streams with friends I had met on Mount Kinpu, I began to dabble in rock climbing as well. The Mizunashi basin offered many suitable streams—Hontani, Shinkayasawa, Momisosawa, Sedonosawa, Genjirosawa, among others—where we spent many enjoyable days.
One of the acquaintances I had met on Mount Kinpu worked as a caretaker at Kurami Sanso, a mountain hut, and for a while I often stayed there on weekends. Sometimes I would walk up from Okura through the dark night; later, I would drive directly. As it was a small hut on the mountainside, there were often no visitors besides the caretaker. Whenever I arrived, he would greet me with, “Ah, the quack doctor—good to see you!” At the time I was still a medical student, so being called a “doctor,” even jokingly, must have been meant as a compliment.
Under the dim light of a lamp, he would show me books and photographs, telling me how formidable Tanigawadake was, describing routes like the South Ridge of Ichinokurasawa. I remember those conversations fondly. In retrospect, he was perhaps a bit prone to exaggeration, but he made those distant, formidable places seem irresistible—I found myself wanting to climb them someday.
During a concentrated Tanzawa expedition, Ms. I fell from a waterfall in Sedonosawa, and Mr. Kesaō Hayashi of Kinpu Hut fashioned a stretcher and carried out the rescue. That, too, was around the same time.
We spent time playing on the rocky sections near the entrance to Momisosawa, and during the rainy season I nearly got swept away in Hontani. Increasingly, we lingered around the lower reaches of the streams, often without seriously aiming for the summit.
Later, I joined a mountaineering club focused on rock climbing and ventured into winter ascents of Hontani and the frozen waterfalls of western Tanzawa. Gradually, however, my visits to Tanzawa became less frequent.
When I returned decades later by car to the confluence at Hontani, memories of those lively encounters with people came back to me. Even climbing Mt. Tō no Dake left me quite short of breath, but the sight of Mount Fuji up close was, as ever, magnificent.
English version prepared with AI assistance.
(Originally published in Japanese on September 22,2012)
Japanese version: