The Geospatial Information Authority of Japan (GSI) provides an online contour map of the entire country, allowing anyone to virtually explore the land with just the click of a mouse. The Hoshida 60 aren’t well-annotated on this electronic resource, appearing as just a contoured amoeba splattered on a low mountain range between a golf course and a series of housing projects. I take a screen shot and print out a blank map, together with a list of the mountains and my trusty GPS for the first excursions into the hither lands of Hoshida.
The footpath behind my house follows the Amanogawa river towards the northernmost section of the Ikoma mountain range. The river, named after the Milky Way, is loosely tied to the origins of Tanabata, a tradition brought to the Kansai region from China in the 8th century during the Nara period. Indeed, every July a festival commences on the banks of the very river I now pursue, though in the ‘new normal’ of COVID these celebrations are now currently on hold.
After heading upstream towards the mountains, I veer southwest, up and around the alleged hiding place of Tokugawa Ieyasu in the post-Nobunaga turmoil of the late 16th century. A small monument within the grounds of Myokenzaka Elementary school marks the bamboo forest in which Tokugawa and his army of followers sought refuge. The bamboo sways gently in the mid-autumn breeze as the path navigates through the sakura groves of Myokenzaka and into the deciduous forests of the Hoshida mountains.
I turn right at an unmarked trail that immediately shoots skyward. Grabbing tufts of exposed tree roots and overhanging branches, I pull myself up to the start of the undulating ridge of sandstone scree that make the Hoshida mountains so treacherous to traverse. The narrow ridge trail follows the contours of the land, and after 10 minutes I reach the summit of ① Mt Ishibashi (石橋山), the first of the Hoshida 60. I pause briefly on the summit of the 180m-high knob, catching glimpses of brilliant autumn foliage through a gap in the trees.
The path drops abruptly down the eastern face, climbing gently to ② Mt Nukutani-mine (抜谷嶺), a nondescript bump just a few minutes from Ishibashi. With two peaks already off the list, I continue on with an additional pep in my step, until coming head long into an impossibly steep scramble known as the Sōen korori. The scree here is relentless and some might say that a sheet of ice would have better purchase then this gritty mess of a mountain face, but I somehow manage to avoid tumbling into the depths and reach the summit of ③ Mt Sōen (宗円山). I pause here for my first rest of the day, wiping the sweat from my brow and poring over the map to figure out the remainder of today’s course. With so many options to choose from, I spy a loop hike back to Myokenzaka via a spur track a bit further down the ridge.
A short traverse on the undulating ridge leads to ④ Mt Minami-Sōen (南宗円山), where the track drops to a saddle and a flattened drainage area littered with freshly fallen leaves. The shoulder of the broad trail is marred by the foraging tusks of wild boar, resembling a roughly plowed vegetable field as the nocturnal creatures dig for sustenance without a care in the world. This section of forest is truly peaceful and hard to believe that it’s part of my neighborhood. I prefer these unknown swaths of forest any day over some of the terribly overrun trails of the Hyakumeizan. My only fear is that some budding author will publish a guidebook to the Hoshida 60 and that every pensioner will swarm in looking for that magic pot of mountaineering gold.
I soon reach a junction for a spur track leading to Umaki. I turn left, leaving the main ridge behind and immediately commence a steep climb on a narrow, untrodden spur toward the skyline. Without the aid of fixed ropes, I am forced to rely on what nature has provided: scrambling over toppled logs and grasping onto unsteady roots as if my very life depended on it. It is truly amazing that such treacherous mountaineering can be found at just an elevation of 200 vertical meters.
At the top of the abrupt scent sits the narrow summit of ⑤ Mt Umaki-mine (馬木嶺), dominated on the southern face by a massive oak tree toppled by the forces of typhoon Jebi back in 2018. Many of the mountain trails in Kansai still bear the scars of damage from this massive storm. Sometimes I feel that I should just take matters into my own hands and carry a hacksaw on my hikes and clear the paths one rotting log at a time. The scar created by the downed tree creates a gap in the tree cover, affording my first views of Mt Atago, which is unfortunately engulfed in a smoggy haze.
The trail splits here, and I initially take the wrong spur on a heavily eroded section of ridge that forces me down on all fours. I soon halt my progress, check the GPS, and retrace my steps back to Umaki, finding the correct track in a narrow gap under the toppled tree. I scuttle down an intense field of gritty scree, soon reaching a gap in the ridge at an eroded saddle. Too broad to leap across, I instead turn around and lower myself feet first to the bottom and bound up the other side for yet another abrupt scramble to the top of ⑥ Mt Jizōtani (地蔵谷山), where I once again pause to catch my breath, for these mountains are providing a surprising workout.
The trail continues from here down off the mountains, but it is too early to call it quits, so I retrace my steps up and over Mt. Umaki and back to the main ridge, where an unmarked path drops to a secluded valley. A stream crossing is made easier with a set of metal staircases, likely installed by Kansai Electric in order for maintenance workers to reach the electrical pylons lining the Hoshida range as if to remind visitors of Japan’s conquering of nature. As expected, the ascent up the opposite slope is sharp and unforgiving, and the sound of voices in the distance gives me pause. I turn around and stare down directly into the fairway of the Shijōnawate golf course. Only in Japan would you find a golf course built in such unforgivable terrain, relegated to land unfit for housing or agriculture.
I push on, above the chatty linksmen and into the dizzying heights of 266 meter-high ⑦ Mt Ōtani (大谷山), my high point for the day. The ridge here has seen much more foot traffic, as it sits on the edge of the Hoshida Enchi, a public park dominated by a massive concrete suspension bridge that somehow attracts the Instagram crowds. Here I am faced with two options: either head south along the ridge for the ascent of 7 more of the Hoshida 60 or loop back toward my home with just one more peak in between. Not wanting to overstay my welcome, I opt for the latter and start salivating at the thought of a warm lunch inside the comforts of home.
Turning north on the narrow ridge, I soon pass by an electrical pylon and stick to the heights, reaching ⑧ Mt Koban-no-mine (小判ノ嶺) a short time later. The track here is overgrown, as not many hikers opt for the strenuous up-down of the mountain tops. Pushing through bamboo grass, I continue over a series of unnamed knobs and drop off the ridge to my right on an unmarked track that leads to Hoshida Enchi. I cross over a rope and ‘Do Not Enter’ sign draped across the narrow track I had just descended. Apparently the upper reaches of the mountains are outside of the park jurisdiction, as the city does not want clueless tourists to wander on these treacherous ridge lines and rightfully so – despite my status as Hyakumeizan alumnus, I would rate the Hoshida 60 for experts only due to the their exposure, the loose footing on the gritty sandstone, and the necessity to possess advanced route-finding skills.
Having visited this park numerous times since relocating to Katano city, I find myself in familiar terrain and simply turn left on the well-maintained trail down to complete the loop. After a brisk 30-minute descent, I reach the fork I took earlier in the morning for Mt Ishibashi and cruise back to home in time for lunch – or so I thought. Spurred on by the temptation of one more peak, I veer off the main road and enter the precincts of Hoshida Myoken Gu, an 8th century sanctuary that was purportedly built by Kukai to commemorate a meteorite that landed on the summit of the mountain. I march up the steps to the back entrance of the shrine and climb an unmarked trail behind a sub-shrine for the short scramble to the summit of ⑨ Mt Myōken (妙見山) to complete the ennead.
The Tozan Tales 
Well, the case for the Hoshida 60 has been well and truly made – on the very first excursion. Historical interest, compelling photography, objective hazards, and even a cameo appearance by Kukai, the patron saint of Japan’s mountains – many of those vaunted Hyakumeizan would be hard pressed to compete. Perhaps that “budding author (who) will publish a guidebook” should be your good self!