“Yatsugatake is a wonderful mountain range. In terms of elevation, its highest peak, Mount Aka, rises to 2,899 meters, making it one of Japan’s loftiest mountains after the Japanese Alps. The rocky ridges thrusting toward the heavens possess a fierce passion and commanding power, while alpine flowers bloom in abundance. Moreover, the magnificence of the coniferous forests covering the middle slopes and the grandeur of the highlands spreading at the foot of the mountains are among the finest in Japan. The mountains themselves are beautifully shaped and easy to climb, and there seem to be few others possessing such distinctive character.”
Wandering Through Northern Yatsugatake is a collection of essays on Yatsugatake by Akihisa Yamaguchi, beginning with the chapter “Invitation to the Mountains.” I can no longer clearly remember when or where I first encountered this book. Yet it was undoubtedly this volume—filled with jewel-like passages of prose—that drew me toward Yatsugatake and led me to visit those mountains from time to time. Even when I was not climbing, simply opening its pages would somehow seem to bring with it the scent of the forests and soil of Yatsugatake, gently calming my heart.
In the chapter “The Four Seasons of Yatsugatake,” the author vividly describes the changing expressions of the mountains from summit ridge to foothills, together with the trees, alpine plants, and birds, all woven into the joy of mountaineering through the passing seasons.
“Diary of Snow and Wind” recounts a nine-day traverse undertaken from Ōkawara Pass in Northern Yatsugatake to Mount Amigasa in Southern Yatsugatake over the New Year period from late 1957 into 1958. For its time, this was a demanding expedition. The usually gentle Northern Yatsugatake becomes severe in winter: dense forests where snow sometimes reaches chest height, difficult belts of dwarf pine, and exhausting travel over breakable crust while burdened with heavy packs. Amid violent storms and bitter cold, the mountains would at times reveal breathtaking winter beauty. After returning from the mountains, the author found that the big toe of his left foot had turned waxy white from frostbite; yet it must have been a deeply satisfying journey.
“Améike” is a chapter centered on the lake near Mugikusa Pass. Together with companions, the author carried tents deep into the primeval forest, following old hatchet marks and forcing their way through dense undergrowth to reach the lake, where they delighted in camp life. They deliberately chose difficult bushwhacking routes again and again from different directions. For them, it was truly a private Heimat, a cherished sanctuary shared only among friends. The joy of that place permeates the writing.
At the time, there were scarcely any proper mountain trails there, yet roads for tourism development had already begun to extend into the area, with dump trucks passing through, and the author expressed concern over the approaching tide of development. One wonders what he would think if he could see today’s Skyline road and ropeway. Perhaps he would feel that the mountains before him were no longer the good old mountains he once knew. And yet, thanks to such developments, we ourselves can now easily reach the deep interior of the range.
“Larch Pass” recalls experiences at a pass just east of Futago Pond in Northern Yatsugatake. One late autumn, the author visited the pass and encountered an unforgettable scene. In late October, light snow drifted upon the wind. From the lakeshore of Futago Pond to the pass, the larches blazed with fiery autumn colors.
“As we climbed through the larch forest thick with dwarf bamboo, the wind suddenly grew fierce. … With astonishing suddenness, the entire landscape changed key. The motionless larch forest all at once came alive. We stopped in our tracks and held our breath. Upon that pass, toward which we had casually turned our steps, there unfolded a terrible frenzy of wind, snow, and whirling larch leaves. Golden larch needles swept away by the wind scattered across the sky together with the dancing snow. … Autumn had ended. What a stark and fearsome farewell. I felt somehow left behind.”
The author stands breathless before this sudden ending of autumn. Then, the following May, he visits the pass once more.
“The larches upon the pass still bore only tiny buds upon their black branches, yet the pale brightness of those budding shoots was unmistakably that of spring. … There was a strange frustration in how utterly different the memory now felt. What in the world had that been? … Nature seems at times to speak every possible language, and at others to speak none at all. Yet the nature before my eyes now seemed rather to say this: ‘I am simply here, always as I am.’”
The living rhythm of nature surrounding Larch Pass is rendered with extraordinary vitality.
“Memories of Fujimi Highlands,” as the author himself explains in the afterword, was a section added later.
“I wished to write it down for myself as a souvenir of one period of my life. It has no direct connection with mountaineering, yet perhaps it may be forgiven to include it in such a book, as another memory linked to Yatsugatake.”
In March 1950, in the very midst of youth, the author entered a sanatorium in Fujimi Highlands to undergo treatment for pulmonary tuberculosis.
“I still remember how I felt when I got off at Fujimi Station and looked up at Yatsugatake from the overpass leading toward the sanatorium. It was a chilly, overcast day, and the snow upon the ridges held no brilliance, yet the mountains, seen again after many months, seemed astonishingly high. So high that it scarcely felt possible that these were mountains I myself had climbed. There was Mount Amigasa, there Gongen, there Nishi-dake, there Aka-dake, there Amida-dake… As I fixed my gaze upon each peak half-veiled by drifting clouds, my chest ached. I thought I would probably never regain the strength to stand upon those summits again. Yet strangely enough, that thought did not bring overwhelming sorrow. Somewhere along the way, I had acquired the habit of not nurturing uncertain hopes, so as not to be disappointed.”
What must it have felt like, after pouring the lifeblood of youth into the mountains, to be hospitalized with an illness that in those days was virtually incurable—a sentence close to death itself? Effective medicines scarcely existed. He could only endure artificial pneumothorax treatments and prolonged rest cures. His condition did not readily improve, and he even developed renal tuberculosis.
At last, surgery in July barely succeeded, and from that point he slowly began to recover. As he resumed short walks in the surrounding countryside, he began visiting the poet Kihachi Ozaki, who lived nearby at Bunsuiso Lodge, and there he also met Hisako Kawakami, who would later become his wife. Gradually, his spirit too recovered.
From spring into summer, his range of activity slowly expanded through excursions resembling field studies in natural history and even outings to catch fireflies. He and Hisako would walk across railway bridges and through tunnels, delighting in the thrill of trains passing close by. On one occasion, they hid together in a recess within a tunnel waiting for a train to pass, but as it approached the author suddenly panicked and fled alone—only to hurriedly run back and pull her to safety just in time.
“Because I ran away alone, she never entirely trusted me after that. … Yet despite such things, Hisako and I had by then grown considerably closer…”
Such passages gently reveal the subtleties of affection between man and woman.
Another summer passed, and his health steadily improved until finally the day of discharge approached.
“Even after November began, beautiful clear autumn days continued one after another. That year, there had already been one snowfall upon Yatsugatake as early as the end of September, yet it vanished after only two days, and after that no more snow came. Beneath the calm, lucid skies of late autumn, Yatsugatake revealed its full form every day, seeming quietly to slumber through the ending of a season. …
November 29th. On that day, as the residents saw me off from the entrance, I left behind the sanatorium where I had spent one year and eight months. Yatsugatake stood white before me, and from the stormy sky light snow drifted down upon the cold air. …
When I arrived at the station, Ozaki and his wife were already there waiting for me. …
‘I made this this morning and wrote it this morning,’ he said as he handed me a square poem card wrapped in newspaper. Written upon it in his graceful hand were the words:
Wind-blown snowflakes—
our farewell this morning
resting upon them.”
Whenever I read “Memories of Fujimi Highlands,” I am overcome by indescribable emotion. Though afflicted by tuberculosis—then still a fatal disease—and though not only his lungs but even his kidneys had been attacked, the author nevertheless returned to the mountains. He later led the Doppyou Mountaineering Club and eventually published scholarly studies on Yatsugatake. He must truly have loved the mountains. And what he wrote touches the heart quietly and deeply. Perhaps he was, above all, a poet of the mountains.
Drawn by this book, I too traveled often to Yatsugatake.
It has now been many years since I last went there, yet memories come flooding back one after another: the ponds of Northern Yatsugatake, the moss-covered forests, Honzawa, Nyū, the wild ridge from Yokodake to Akadake, Daidōshin and Shodoshin, the broad highlands at the foot of the range, and Inagoyu. Each recollection still stirs my heart.
There is something deeply appealing about the atmosphere of the postwar mountaineering boom that permeates the book. Yet at the same time, it remains for me a strangely timeless work—one that always renews my spirit whenever I return to its pages.
English version prepared with AI assistance
(Originally published in Japanese)
https://hifuka-otibohiroi.net/北八ツ彷徨/
Mt. Aka-dake
Nakayama ridge