Shikoku Chapter 6 – Mt Tsurugi Redux

Reasons for revisiting a mountain vary. Some appreciate the scenery and climb a mountain a second, third or hundredth time, while others look for revenge on a peak scaled during bad weather. But I do not fall into either category. My first ascent in 2003 was under favorable early-autumn skies, and I do not recall the summit scenery being anything other than disappointing due to the concrete and erosion. My intent this time around is much simpler – to acquire a bit of altitude before heading above the treeline next weekend, for I have spent way too long at sea level waiting out the COVID storm.

Breakfast at our accommodation is served at 7am and we are on the road by 7:30am for the short drive to the chair lift parking lot, which fortunately has a few empty spaces. It appears that the day trippers are still making their way up the switchbacks to Minokoshi at the head of Iya Valley. Instead of the lazy way up the mountain, Paul and I walk downhill to the Torii gate marking the entrance to Tsurugi jinja, a sanctuary sitting at the top of a long row of concrete steps. About 10 stairs into our ascent, we spy a grassy clearing on our left ringed by Buddhist statues facing an immense full-color sculpture of Fudō Myōō grasping his sword and standing guard – a rarity for a deity who is usually displayed in a seated position. En no Gyōja sits in front, ringed by stone lanterns and guarded by a pair of komainu lion dogs. So sits Shugendō Buddhism, relegated to a side stage during the Meiji era and left forgotten by all but a few of the fellow visitors who must go out of their way to pay their respects.

Back on the main concrete trail, Tsurugi shrine sits at the crest of the hill, overlooking the lost denizens of Iya Valley like a faithful caretaker. After muttering a quick request for safe passage, we pass under the shimenawa draped between two cryptomeria and start our ascent on a proper trail through a lush hardwood forest glistening in the early morning light. Soon the path crosses the chairlift whisking lazy hikers up the first 200 meters of vertical elevation. Safe passage is provided via a corrugated metal tunnel running directly underneath man’s scar on the otherwise pristine landscape. I always wonder how Fukada would feel about such modern intrusions, as in his day, climbers had to access the mountain via a series of long, multi-day trails starting far down in the valley below.

Part hiking route, part nature trail, the path is lined with katakana signposts on the trees, a good way to brush up on those familiar tree names: the usual beech and Mongolian oak take center stage, but surprised as we are by a spindle tree and several rowan trees thrown into the mix. Our route switchbacks alongside the chair lift, the early morning silence broken by the cacophony of loudspeaker announcements. Perhaps it’s time for Japan to introduce that bluetooth technology and just stream these superfluous explanations to passenger’s smartphones instead. The last thing I want to know when riding a chair lift is the when and where of the contraption – the bigger question is why?

A cliff band soon comes into view, flanked on the lower end by a corrugated metal sanctuary presumably housing a buddhist statue or shinto entity. The answer to such a mystery remains out of reach, as the building sits off a side trail that we just can’t be bothered to explore, rushed as we are to beat the clouds in our race to the summit. Flattened terraces on our right have been crafted into well-placed camping platforms, affording favorable views across the ridge to Jirōgyū, our secondary target after ascending Tsurugi.

Just beyond the modest campground, a pair of depilated buildings mark the entrance to the top of the chair lift as fresh-legged hikers alight as if they’re emerging from the subway turnstile. Here a series of paths diverge in three directions. We opt for the trail adorned with the Torii gate and begin a long, gentle traverse under the summit plateau watched over by a field of purple monkshood in full bloom. Vistas open up to the west, dominated by the pointy hat of Miune sitting on the edge of a steep drop towards Iya Valley. Beyond, the rest of the peaks of the Tsurugi range fold onto one another, foreshortened as they are by this direct angle.

Otsurugi shrine is the next landmark to present itself, the distinctive eaves of its red roof still cloaked in shade from the shadow of the summit plateau looming above. The shrine abuts the craggy spindles of Tsurugi Iwa, which from this vantage point distinctly resemble swords for which Tsurugi derives its name. Fukada refutes this source, instead indicating that the name Tsurugi was given due to the legend of a buried sword related to the 12th century Emperor Antoku. Antoku died at the untimely age of 6, so whether this tale is simply a matter of fact or fiction remains to be seen. My gut feeling is that this rock formation itself is the true origin of the name, as you can’t prove that a sword was actually buried on the summit, but you can definitely prove the existence of a spear-like crag. Plus, if you close your eyes and press your hands against Tsurugi Iwa, you can definitely feel the presence of the Shugendō monks of yesteryear, who certainly chanted a mantra or two during their search for enlightenment.

With the clouds rising in direct proportion to the summer humidity, we press on, through a grove of Erman’s birch to reach a trio of structures sitting directly on the edge of the summit plateau. Affording pleasant views across the valleys of Tokushima and further afield to Daisen (on exceptionally clear and cloudless days), a narrow path perforates the space between the two structures, offering access to the summit itself. The nearer of the trio of structures, flanked by an impressive steel Torii gate, houses the main shrine of Tsurugisan Hongu, a Shintō sanctum hawking lucky charms at mountain summit prices. A large rock formation rises abruptly behind the space, home to the mountain deity and another piece of real estate likely usurped from the hands of the Shugendō monks.

The other less austere structure is home to Tsurugi Chōjō Hyutte, a rustic two-story mountain hut built in 1955 by 新居 熊太 (no idea about the proper reading, after searching endlessly). He built the hut when he was already 65 years old and spent the next twenty years running and making improvements to the wooden structure. He must have crossed paths with Fukada Kyūya himself, but more research will be required to determine the extent of those interactions. One thing is for sure – the summit looks entirely different from when those first support beams were hauled up from the valley below those 65 years ago.

Beyond the hut, the route enters a vast plateau of lush bamboo grass, with elevated wooden walkways encircling the circumference of the rotund summit. Gone are the concrete buildings and heavy erosion of two decades ago. A well-designed eco-toilet building with a sloping roof complements the lush landscape. Even the antenna adorning the top look smaller than before: perhaps a direct result of my fading memory over the last 20 years. Paul and I head off away from the summit on a side walkway for a rest away from the crowds. A middle-aged man sits on a wooden viewing deck, taking in the sight above the sea of encroaching cloud. “The sunrise was amazing from here”, he claims, having ascended in the pre-dawn hours as an excursion from a business trip to Kobe. “I’m actually from Yokohama”, he confesses, bracing himself for admonishment for having traveled out of the prefecture during the pandemic. But I only offer words of encouragement, as I’m sure he’s had more than his fair share of guilt-by-association for living in a COVID hotspot.

After a quick snack, the two of us opt for the right fork at the toilets and walk counterclockwise to the summit, where the chair-lift crowds have now reached the top. The triangulation point sits between a split in the walkways, wrapped in a shimenawa rope in an apparent effort to keep hikers from trampling it to oblivion. A nondescript signpost cants heavily towards the encroaching bamboo grass. We pause for a few seconds before continuing along the ridge towards an attractive mountain named Jirōgyū – Shikoku’s third highest mountain. I share the descent with a trail runner as we talk about the mountains of Japan’s 4th island. Paul pushes on ahead to escape from our vibrant chatter. The route bottoms out at a saddle before the steep, sweat-inducing climb to the top, an ascent that is accompanied by the rising cloud of the day.

We sit in the cloud and devour our lunch, taking in brief breaks in the fog to relish in the vibrant greenery of summer. It is a comfortable 23 degrees, as least 15 degrees cooler than the valleys nearly 2000 meters below us. I had always thought that Osaka residents needed to head to the Japan Alps to escape the summer heat, but all we need to do is to head a few hours west instead, an enticing proposition as we continue to ride out the ebbs and flows of the pandemic.

 

 

 

 

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Mt. Ushiro – Looking Back

Nestled snugly along the prefectural border of Okayama and Hyogo lies a formidable ridge of mountain peaks towering high over the secluded village of Chikusa. Known to Shugendō practitioners as the Nishi Ōmine, or Mt Ōmine of the west, the southern face of Mt Ushiro is home to the 13th century temple known as Dōsenji, whose inner sanctuary is still off-limits to women. Since there are two females in our quartet of hikers, we opt to skip this misogynistic nightmare and instead opt for the straightforward ascent of the southern face of Mt Funaki, followed by a half-hour stroll along the ridge to Mt Ushiro.

Paul pulls the car up to the small parking lot just opposite the idle campground. The trailhead is smothered with signposts in various states of decay, but from what we gather from the remaining bits of faded text, it is a 2km climb straight up the spur to the summit plateau, followed by a short descent to an unnamed saddle and a final climb up the western face. Paul, Mayumi, Maggie and I set off in single file, marching towards that summit ridge along a rocky promenade ablaze with autumn delights. 

The path initially follows a small ravine along a narrow path marked consistently in red tape marks and signposts in much better condition than found below. One such way mark indicates we are trespassing along the Chūgoku Shuzen Hodō, a well-established network of paths penetrating the 5 prefectures of the Chūgoku region. All in all it covers a mind boggling distance of nearly 2300km and would be an immense undertaking for even seasoned walkers, though content as we are with this slither of a 2000 meter stretch of track.

Our route soon leaves the comforts of the valley floor and climbs abruptly through a glorious collection of hardwoods that have already started shedding their summer coats. By the time we reach the halfway point of the climb the trees are completely bare: a start contrast to the brilliant display of autumn hues just a few hundred vertical meters below.

After passing through a small grove of towering hardwoods, an upkept section of planted Hinoki cypress escorts us up the furthest reaches of the slopes to the start of the spur proper. This cypress follows us along the ridge that doubles as a property line. The forests to our right are owned by Dōsenji temple and retain their centuries-old charm, while to our left a thick wall of planted trees squeezes the life out of the forest. Many ridge lines in Japan retain this unique feature, and no greater a contrast can be found during the fall and winter season in this unsanctioned struggle between deciduous decrepitude and evergreen encroachment.

Our pleasant ascent in solitude is broken by the symphonic squalls of bear bells from the upper slopes ahead, as a battalion of elderly hikers descend toward us. Such groups two dozen strong are hardly a rare sighting in the mountains of Japan, as most visitors seem to visit the mountains to socialize rather than to seek spiritual solitude. We utter a quick greeting while letting them pass.

The spur soon intersects the summit ridge on the top of Mt Funaki sitting just 10 meters lower than Mt Ushiro at an altitude of 1334 meters. Funaki happens to feature on the list of Shisō 50 Meizan, or 50 peaks of the Shisō region of Hyōgo Prefecture. Fukada Kyūya’s greatest shortsight is in not trademarking the meizan name, for his estate would be quite wealthy with the plethora of ‘famous mountain’ lists permeating every region of Japan.

After a short break to catch our breath, we drop along a brilliant ridge of bamboo grass for the pleasant half an hour stroll to the summit of Okayama’s highest mountain. To be honest, it’s hard to call this peak part of the Chūgoku region as it lies in closer proximity to Kobe than Okayama. In fact, Mt Hinakura sitting directly opposite the valley is featured on the list of Kansai Hyakumeizan. But as I’ve told countless individuals before: “I didn’t choose the mountains – the mountains chose me”.

Paul brews up fresh coffee for everyone as we take in the warm autumn sunshine and stellar panoramic views. It’s hard to believe this is my final ‘Highest Prefectural Peak’ west of Fukui. There are still half a dozen more mountains to go, but I have faith that I can finish them off before I grow old and grey. As I look back over the preceding years, I consider myself lucky to have come this far, climbing mountains with faithful companions and escaping close calls with leaky valves and bleeding lungs. 

We retrace our steps with the fading afternoon light as our accompaniment – it is these descents that I truly cherish in my mountain quests. With strong knees and, carried by the momentum of a successful ascent, I tend to shift into autopilot, but with the wilting light I walk spellbound, transfixed by the absolute beauty of the deciduous groves in their seasonal metamorphosis. 

 

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