Friday, February 13, 2009

The perfect mountain day

Recipe for a congenial late-season ascent of the Gross Spannort

Set out from the Swiss Alpine Club's Kroenten hut before dawn ....


... be well on your way to the col before the sun comes up ...

... so that you get your first view of the mountain at sunrise.


On the way across the glacier ....


... to the start of the first pitch.


Like Everest, the Spannort has three rock steps ...


... but it's customary to climb without oxygen masks.


Summit rocks


Summit cross


Encountering the Roeti Dolomite on the way to Engelberg


Stopping for refreshment at the SAC Spannort hut

Prayer flags give a Himalayan ambience without the bother of actually going there


We overtook an elderly couple coming back from the hut - bless thee, ancient chronicles.

Monday, February 9, 2009

Fujisan-ki (富士山記)

Translation from a modern Japanese version of the full original kanbun text by Miyako no Yoshika

Mt Fuji is in the province of Suruga. The peak is sculpted as if by a sword-blade and soars up until it touches the sky. Its height is immeasurable. There is no higher mountain, as you will see if look through this or that written record. This soaring peak rises out of thick forests and seems to touch the edge of heaven, towering over the ocean.

The base of this extraordinary mountain extends for thousands of leagues, so that travellers must journey for several days until they have passed it by. Even then, when they look back, they are still at the mountain’s foot.

This must be a place where hermits disport themselves. As I’ve heard, during the Shōwa era (834-848), pearls and jewels rolled down from the mountain, each jewel with a little hole through it. These were probably beautiful gems that once adorned the reed screen of a hermit’s cell.

On November 5th, in the 17th year of Jōgan (876), the officials and people were celebrating a festival in accordance with an ancient rite when, as the day wore on towards noon, the sky cleared wonderfully. Looking up towards the mountain, they saw how two beautiful maidens robed in white danced above the summit, seemingly a foot or more above it. Several local people saw it; a very old man passed on the tale.

Mt Fuji takes its name from that of the district. Its deity is the Great God Asama. As for its height, it rises so far above the clouds that nobody knows how high it is. The summit is flat and about a league across. It is sunken in the middle, in shape like a rice-steaming pot (koshiki). At the bottom of this pot, there is a mysterious lake and in the middle of the lake, a large rock. The rock is strangely shaped, just like a crouching tiger. Vapour rises incessantly from the crater. The lake’s colour is a pure and deep blue. If one looks into the crater, it’s as if the water is seething. Looking from afar, one often sees smoke and flames too.

That summit pond is ringed with bamboo, which is a lush green and pliable. The snow never melts in spring or summer. Below the middle of the mountain grow small pine trees, but there are no trees above that level, only white ash. People can climb the mountain to its middle level, but it’s impossible to go further because of the ash which is always slipping downwards. It is said that En-no-gyōja once climbed the mountain but, after that, everybody has stopped at the middle level.

A great spring issues from the lower part of the mountain, which feeds a large river. The flow of water never varies, in hot season or in cold or in drought. At the eastern foot of Mt Fuji is a small mountain, which the local people call the new mountain. Originally this was flat ground, but in March of the 21st year of Enryaku (803) black smoke and steam came churning up and, after 10 days, the new mountain was formed. Probably a god created it.

Back to main article: Journey to the centre of Mt Fuji

Tuesday, January 20, 2009

Foehn call

18 January, Pizol: up on the summit, the foehn was blowing and you could see forever. Bernina, Palü, Roseg .. the old man pointed out the summits on the horizon, his arm sweeping through the four points of the compass … Falknis, Alvier, Gonzen … he didn’t say so, but he’d probably climbed all of them. Then he ambled off down the snow. No crampons, no ice-axe, just perfect balance, honed over a lifetime.


The foehn is a manic depressive of a wind. He blows up from the southwest ahead of an incoming front – that’s the depressive part. When he’s in a bad mood, he uproots trees and blows you off your feet. Mostly, though, he’s an artist manqué. Roll clouds, cirrus, foehn walls, these are his stock-in-trade.


Today he puts on a virtuoso performance. Like a prestigitator whipping cloths from fully laden tables, he drives the clouds across the peaks in fretwork patterns of ripples, waves, bars, vortices.


Towards evening, there’s a brief display of iridescent clouds, fragile and evanescent as memories. Tomorrow the depression will set in.


Sunday, January 18, 2009

On solo mountaineering (単独行について)

Full translation of the essay by Katō Buntarō in Solo Climbs (単独行)

As these thoughts on solo mountaineering are my own, and make no reference to those of other soloists, they are inevitably a personal view. But I don’t doubt that common ground will be found in places with the experience of other mountaineers.

A good number of people go to the mountains solo in our country, but most of them could be described as hikers. There’s all the difference in the world between these and the hardy solo ascensionist (I take the term from Mr Mizuno’s book on rock climbing), who, like one of those alpine “Alleingänger”, favours the avalanche-and stonefall-raked routes shunned by others, scorns to follow in other people’s dust and boldly tackles one impossible line after another.

Yet this kind of soloist starts out in much the same way as a solo hiker. He has a liking for nature, a disposition towards a sport that gets him out into it, and also a kind of self-willed yet timid streak in his character. Too timid, that is, to want to pester an expert to show him the way, and too self-willed to put up with a slower, less expert companion. In this way, he finds himself increasingly inclined to set off into the mountains alone. So that’s how he gets into soloing, but his timidity won’t let him admit there’s the slightest danger in it and keeps him prudent to a fault. There’s no saying how many humdrum hikes he’ll make or passes he’ll walk over. Then, after wandering all over the place to burn himself in, he’ll finally start climbing to summits. In other words, he’s followed the typical path of the hiker. Thus the soloist proceeds from summer to spring and autumn and finally winter mountains, making sure of every step, and never trusting himself to a flying leap. And, as long as he takes no flying leaps, you can’t say that his solitary mountaineering is in the least dangerous.

When I look back on my own winter solo mountaineering career, I began in February 1928 in the Hyōnosen mountains, then the following January I climbed Yatsugatake from Natsuzawa hot springs, then I climbed Norikura from Reisen hut (冷泉小屋) then in February I climbed Yarigatake from the Ichinomata hut, and in March, Tateyama from the Kōbō hut. In January 1930, after climbing Tateyama from Murodō, I traversed to Guntai-Tsurugi, and after climbing Yari again, went up Karesawa to the Hodaka hut and back. (The previous year, on April 1, I climbed Karesawa-dake and, on the following day, with Mr Kuwata, climbed Oku-Hodaka.) In February, I climbed Tateyama from Kōbō, then Oku-Hodaka, Karesawa-dake, and Kita-Hodaka. (On December 1, I went up Ichinosawa and climbed Jōnen-dake and Ōtensho-dake from the Jōnen hut.)

In January 1931, I started from Ōdawa and went via the hut beyond Arimine-Magawa to Ue-no-take hut and so to the summit of Yakushi-dake. Then I traversed across to Kurobegoro-dake, Mitsumata-renge, Washiba, Kuro-dake, Noguchigoro, and Mitsu-dake to the Eboshi hut and so down the Bunadate ridge. In February, I started from Kashima village and climbed Tsubetazawa Nishimata to the summit of Kashimayari. I also climbed Tsurugi from Murodō via Chōjirō-dani, then Tateyama. In January 1932, I climbed Goryū-dake from the Karamatsu-Nichiden hut, then downclimbed from a point between Karamatsu and Kaerazu-dake and returned from the first col. (After that, I also climbed Shirouma-dake from Sarukura with two friends.) In February, I climbed Yari from the hut on Yari col, then climbed Minami-dake, before returning and taking in Sugoroku-dake, Nukedo-dake (抜戸岳) and Kasa-ga-dake. Then I went up the Shirouma Great Snow Valley to Shakushi, Yari (鎗), Asahi-dake and Shirouma etc. In January 1933, I summited Fuji from Gotenba, then climbed Ontake from Kurosawa, descending to Ōtaki. In March, I went up Yarisawa, then traversed Yari, Minami-dake, Oku-Hodaka, Maehodaka, descending to Dakekawa. After that, I climbed Norikura. (In April, I went in one day along the ridge from Tateyama to Bessan; the next day from the Nokkoshi hut to climb Guntai-Tsurugi.) Unfortunately, I ran into heavy snowfall in January and had to retreat after pitching my tent at Buna hut half-way up Tateyama, much to my chagrin. (On April 3 and 4, with a friend, I climbed the North Ridge of Mae-Hodaka, then crossed to Oku-Hodaka. On the way, I got frostbite, so we abandoned our plan to traverse to Yari and went down from the Hodaka hut. Included in the above account are trips that weren’t solo (in brackets) or in winter, so that you can see how the progress was made from simple ventures to gradually more difficult ones.

Why climb mountains? I climb because I want to climb; surely it’s a good enough reason to climb if one is moved to do so by some irrepressible instinct of the spirit. And if it’s objected that this is just like drinking, even though you know it’s bad for you, because you can’t help it, then so be it. For we climb mountains because we believe climbing mountains is good. Mountain climbers may from time to time compare climbing to a boozer’s drink or a smoker’s cigarettes but this is, in reality, quite absurd. If mountaineering is about gaining knowledge and hence solace from nature, then surely the most knowledge and the highest degree of solace is gained from solo mountaineering. This is because, if you have a companion with you, you sometimes forget to look at the mountains whereas, when you wander through the hills and valleys alone, no stick or stone can fail to captivate your heart. Or, if mountaineering is about doing battle with nature and prevailing, and gaining solace that way, then surely the battle and the solace thereafter are that much more intense when you are alone, counting on nobody but yourself. Rock-climbing is entirely different when climbing alone than it is when somebody else is looking on.

In March last year, I visited the Matsudaka cave bivouac (岩小屋) in Yokoo-dani. Nakamura and his friends, who’d climbed Byōbu-iwa in January, were there and made me welcome. I sat myself down on a silver-birch bough near the entrance, facing the campfire. At which, Mr Nakamura said, “You know, mate, you’re living on borrowed time.” When I asked why, he said that just this time last year, Mr Mitsuya of Kobe turned up unexpectedly, just like you, and Mitsuya sat down right where you are now. And it was the same with Mr Kanemitsu of Kobe and his guide, Tsukada from Arimine, they were sat right where you are now. And that’s why you won’t last long either. As you’d expect from somebody who climbs Byōbu in winter, Nakamura had a direct way of speaking. Tough as he was, though, he didn’t understand much about solo mountaineering. Then he said he’d climbed Byōbu with a companion. They didn’t use a rope, but the human contact between them was reassuring. He wouldn’t have climbed Byōbu alone; in fact, he wouldn’t even go into the mountains alone. Even mountaineers with as much experience and enthusiasm as himself didn't go solo, did they? So who is he to make a judgment on soloing, whether it’s dangerous or what kind of skill level it needs? People who want to solo should solo; only people who want to are qualified to solo.

Solo mountaineers sometimes meet a party with a guide staying in the same hut. The soloist, just because he’s a soloist, is unlikely to be welcomed with open arms by the guide. And the soloist, as a man of the mountains, is a taciturn type who’s not so bothered about other people’s feelings. Even so, he is a timid sort who doesn’t want to needlessly get on the guide’s nerves. This can lead to the situation where, in iffy weather, the guide declares that they’re not going anywhere that day. As it happens, the soloist is quite confident about the weather, but now he can’t make a start for fear of making the guide lose face. Then, if he sits in a hut for two or three days, the guide can say to him that, now winter mountaineering has become so popular, there are clueless folk who just turn up at a mountain village or hut hoping to find a party with a good leader or guide and follow in their tracks up a mountain. True or not, this is totally unacceptable. I suppose you don’t mind being considered the sort of person who fobs off the responsibility for taking risks onto others … that’s the sort of thing that can be said. And, of course, there are places where mountain huts are kept locked against folk without guides. As guideless parties and soloists are particularly unwelcome at such huts, soloists who want to go out even in slightly poor conditions will be told that, if they do and the weather turns bad on them, the villagers will feel responsible and that, quite possibly, they’ll have to put themselves out tracking down the lost climbers. And even if their fears turn out to be groundless, it’s still the fault of the mountaineer for causing all the worry. In this way, their kindness is turned into a bargaining counter, to extort a tip.

Or when we’re walking on a narrow path, I’ll keep marching forward and the people coming the other direction will give way, or I’ll try to make space and the other people will march on and keep going. It can also happen that on a narrow snowy path, when your party is larger, you won’t give way yourself. Abroad, there are said to be “Alleingänger” who learned their trade climbing on terrific cliffs where nobody could possibly have stopped a falling companion on the rope. Yet, even so, there are people who’ll lecture these excellent “Alleingänger” on the dangers of solo climbing. So, I advise all soloists, pay no attention to the nay-sayers. If you do start listening to them, then you’ll have to give up soloing. That’s because you’ll already have started to have doubts about solo climbing. To solo in a state of self-doubt is a crime: you’ll just be tortured by guilt, whether it’s mountains or soloing or booze or smoking that’s bothering you. But if you solo because you know it’s the right thing to do, then you can make progress without agonizing about it. The weak will be tormented, crushed; the strong will become stronger and flourish.

So, soloists, be strong!

December 1934

Back to main article

Thursday, January 15, 2009

Risk assessment


Swiss researchers put some numbers on the hazards of ski-touring and off-piste skiing. Sorry, but ski-touring is more dangerous than driving

Every year in Switzerland for the last two decades, avalanches have claimed the lives of about 14 ski-mountaineers and 7 off-piste skiers – the latter being folk who use the lifts of ski-resorts but find their way downhill outside the prepared ski-pistes. But these numbers don’t actually reveal the likelihood of an avalanche accident on any given ski-tour or ski-run.

Now two Swiss researchers have attempted to answer that question. The findings of Philippe Wäger of the University of Bern and Benjamin Zweifel of the Swiss Federal Institute for Snow and Avalanche Research at Davos are published in the 2.2008 edition of “Die Alpen”, the official magazine of the Swiss Alpine Club.

Based on a limited sampling of routes near Davos, Wäger and Zweifel estimate that fatal avalanche accidents occur on about three ski-mountaineering tours out of every 100,000. For off-piste skiers, the risk is rather higher, at 10 fatal accidents per 100,000. This reflects the fact that ski-mountaineers tend to limit themselves to one mountain route per outing, while off-piste skiers use the lifts to make many different runs every day.

There is also a difference in behaviour, note the researchers. Ski-mountaineers are less likely to undertake a tour when the avalanche risk level moves up from “moderate” (Level 2) to “considerable (Level 3). But off-piste skiers are more likely to go out when conditions are dangerous.

Extrapolating from their limited sample to probabilities for the whole of Switzerland, the authors estimate that some 9 fatal avalanche accidents occur every year per 100,000 ski-mountaineering tours and 12 per off-piste run. Of course, avalanches are not the only source of danger for skiers, who can also fall victim to crevasses, cornice collapses, and icy slopes. Including these other dangers and annoyances, the accident quota rises to 17 per 100,000 ski-mountaineering tours and 20 per off-piste run.

In sum, ski-touring and off-piste skiing appear to be less dangerous than summer alpine climbing but more dangerous than rock-climbing or hiking. Another bit of news to ponder. If you thought that driving to the mountain was the most dangerous part of the trip, think again. “The figures don’t support that conclusion,” say the researchers.

References

Das tödliche Risiko Lawinen by Philippe Wäger of the University of Bern and Benjamin Zweifel of the Swiss Federal Institute for Snow and Avalanche Research at Davos, in the 2.2008 edition of “Die Alpen”, the official magazine of the Swiss Alpine Club.

Do you feel lucky ...


... well, do you? Strange noises on a snowslope lead to Schopenhauerian reflections

"I don't like this," said Wolfie as he started up the face of a small snowbowl. But we liked what followed even less. The snow beneath my own skis trembled and settled with a soft but emphatic "Whoomph". Fortunately, the mountain left it that.


When decision-making at times like this, it can be helpful to imagine how a putative accident report will read. Like this, maybe. "On Easter Saturday, the four-person party, all foreigners, were avalanched at 2,900 metres on the Swiss side of Il Capuchin, a small peak in the Bernina massif. The two survivors admit that, twenty minutes before the accident, they heard signs of instability in the snowpack. But they decided to continue the ski-tour, putting their trust in the official avalanche forecast for the area, which stood at Grade II 'Moderate'…"

We turned back, after digging a pit to look for weak layers in the snow (inconclusive). But even before we reached the hut, we saw other people starting up our mountain, following the tracks we'd made. So far from worrying about avalanches, the members of one group were bunched tightly together. After reaching the summit unscathed, they were able to yee-haw their way down 800 metres of untracked powder snow, and all this under a flawless blue sky. Later, one of their guides reassured us that our "whoomph" just meant that the new snow was settling.

"The mountain will always be there tomorrow," said the hut warden, consoling us. True, although next morning these wise words were difficult to verify through the low cloud and snow showers. Cutting our losses, we went home. Back in town, with gear hanging up to dry over the radiators, I consulted Werner Munter about our suspect snowslope. Not in person, of course, but via his book, Avalanches 3x3: Decision-making in critical situations. An alpine guide based in Davos, Munter is an avalanche expert whose patriarchal beard reinforces his already immense authority in this part of the world. His remarks on "whoomph" noises are found in a section of his book entitled "Thirteen Deadly Errors":

Error #10: Wumm-noises are favourable signs that the snow is settling

One might just as well say that the storm is over after the first thunderclap. Wumm-noises (accompanied by a simultaneous backward settling of the snow) and cracks running through the snow when it is loaded are the most reliable indicators for a weak snowpack. In fact, they are warning signs. Wumm-noises are almost always heard immediately before a windslab avalanche is triggered. They accompany the factors that lead to the rupture within the snowpack. Each noise testifies to a further weakening of an already weakened snowpack. So these sounds should send a chill down our spines; there could not be a clearer warning!


After reading this advice, I think I'll keep turning back whenever I hear "whoomph" noises. And, by the way, that's a telling epigraph that Munter has chosen to head up his "Deadly Errors" chapter. It's not often you find a quotation from Arthur Schopenhauer in a mountaineering text book, so here it is in full: "All ignorance is dangerous, and most errors must be dearly paid for. And you need lots of luck if you plan to carry an unchastised error around in your head until the day you die."

References

Lawinen 3x3: Entscheiden in kritischen Situation by Werner Munter. To my mind, the best book ever written on avalanche avoidance. Available in German and French, but not yet in English. Maybe somebody should translate the rest of it.

Sunrise on the pines


A rare optical phenomenon is analysed by a physicist and alpinist. Not that this will sell his book

As we came up a mountain path in the blast-furnace summer of 2003, the pine trees above us flared into a burst of silver brilliance.


The phenomenon did not escape the ever-observant John Tyndall (1820-1893), a physicist now remembered chiefly for his work on atmospheric optics – and also for a glittering alpinistic career that included an inspection of the Matterhorn and the first ascent of the Weisshorn. Here is the account of sunrise on the pines from Chapter IX of his "Mountaineering in 1861":-

I must here mention a beautiful effect which I observed from Randa on the morning of the 18th of August. The valley of St. Nicholas runs nearly north and south and the ridge which flanks it to the east is partially covered with pines; the trees on the summit of this ridge as you look at them from the valley being projected against the sky.

What I saw was this: as the sun was about to rise I could trace upon the meadows in the valley the outline of the ridge which concealed him, and I could walk along the valley so as to keep myself quite within the shadow of the mountain. Suppose me just immersed in the shadow: as I moved along, successive pine trees on the top of the ridge were projected on that portion of the heavens where the sun was about to appear, and every one of them assumed in this position a perfect silvery brightness. It was most interesting to observe, as I walked up and down the valley, tree after tree losing its opacity and suddenly robing itself in glory …

The cause of the phenomenon I take to be this: You have often noticed the bright illumination of the atmosphere immediately surrounding the sun; and how speedily the brightness diminishes as your eye departs from the sun’s edge. This brightness is mainly caused by the sunlight falling on the aqueous particles in the air, aided by whatever dust may be suspended in the atmosphere.

If instead of aqueous particles fine solid particles were strewn in the air, the intensity of the light reflected from them would be greater. Now the spiculae of the pine, when the tree is projected against the heavens, close to the sun’s rim, are exactly in this condition; they are flooded by a gush of the intensest light, and reflect it from their smooth surfaces to the spectator.

John Tyndall's pen was as mighty as his alpenstock yet, sadly, his alpine books are more out of print than in. By comparison, Whymper's Scrambles in the Alps continue to sell and sell. The truth is that exquisite nature observations, combined with accounts of safe and cheerful climbs – as practised by Tyndall – don't fly off the shelves. It takes a spectacular accident – Whymper on the Matterhorn, Joe Simpson on Sula Grande – to move a mountaineering book into the mass market.

Reference

The glaciers of the Alps & Mountaineering in 1861, by John Tyndall (Everyman's edition)

Chiyoko’s Fuji

When Nonaka Itaru made plans to spend the winter of 1895 on the summit of Japan's highest mountain, his wife realised she had to save the aspirant meteorologist from sacrificing himself to science ...

To save her husband, she'd have to deceive him. That much was obvious after Itaru came back from Mt Fuji in February. Flushed with the success of his solo climb – the first ever ascent in winter – Nonaka Itaru could no longer see any flaws in his plan. He'd dreamed for years of making an original contribution to meteorology. Now the way was clear for action.

In the coming summer, he’d build a hut on the summit of Mt Fuji, almost four kilometres above sea level. Then he’d climb up there in October, and take weather readings through the winter of 1895. Nobody had ever before made a round-the-year record of atmospheric pressure at such an altitude. Success would give Japan a lead in the nascent science of weather forecasting…

The scheme was already bold. What tipped it into recklessness was Itaru’s resolve to take weather readings every two hours, night and day – even though Wada-san, Itaru’s sponsor at the Tokyo Meteorological Observatory, had told him that six readings a day would be quite enough.

Chiyoko knew her husband. They'd been married a few years and, besides, they had practically grown up together back in Chikuzen. She knew how the famous stubbornness of Kyushu folk can boil over into folly. If Itaru went up that mountain alone and tried to fight its ferocious winter without proper food or sleep, he wouldn't come back alive.

So – with her own streak of Chikuzen obstinacy – Chiyoko made her own plans. After spending the summer in a village at Mt Fuji’s foot, helping Itaru organise the hut’s construction, she’d travel back to her parents’ home, drop off her three-year-old daughter, Sonoko, and make ready to climb Fuji and join Itaru for his winter vigil. All without telling Itaru, of course, or he’d put a stop to her preparations.

The hut was finished in late September and Itaru took up his vigil there soon afterwards. As soon as the coast was clear, Chiyoko set out for Kyushu, a three-day journey. When she turned up unannounced, little Sonoko asleep on her back, her parents were first delighted, then concerned. Have you displeased Itaru in some way, her mother asked.

Kneeling on the tatami, Chiyoko explained her plan – if she didn't go up the mountain, she would soon have no husband. The parting with Sonoko brought tears, but she knew where her duty lay. In the first week of October, she was back at the village at the foot of Mt Fuji. The mountain loomed overhead like a colossus, snow-covered to its midriff.

Early on the morning of the 12th, she set out from Nakahata escorted by her brother, Kiyoshi, and two porters. As the light began to fade, they reached the hut and hammered on the door. Itaru slid the door aside and looked out at his visitors - first amazed at them, then aghast: "What on earth are you doing here?" he asked.

The first-ever mid-autumnal marital tiff on Mt Fuji is a short one

Escorted by her brother Kiyoshi and two porters, Chiyoko reached the summit of Mt Fuji as daylight was fading. Crunching through the first snows of the season, they reached the small hut tucked under the volcano’s highest crag. When Itaru opened the door, he looked first amazed, then aghast.

"What on earth are you doing here?" he asked. There’s no need to worry, Chiyoko reassured him, everything is fine at home. "In that case," said her husband, "there's no need for you to stay. You can start down as soon as it's light tomorrow." To which his wife rejoined: "And that I will not, for reasons I'll explain later. And as I've made up my mind, it doesn't matter what you say - I'll not be leaving this mountain for my life."

Without another word, Itaru stepped back into the hut. It wasn't just the biting cold and the wind that had silenced him, or the presence of others. As he'd learned during a few years of marriage, there is in this world one thing more obdurate than the will of a Chikuzen samurai. And that is the will of a Chikuzen samurai's wife.

Nobody slept much that night, as all had to sit up. The hut had been designed to accommodate one man, and now five people were crowded around the red-hot stove, listening to the wind as it buffeted the crags above.

When morning came, Chiyoko stayed. As her brother Kiyoshi left, his figure vanishing into the enveloping clouds, she briefly felt a pang of loneliness. Then she set about putting things in order. There was some work to do in that department.

The Nonakas were not left in peace for long. Around noon on October 28, there was another knock on the sliding door. Chiyoko tugged at the handle, only to find the door frozen shut. The visitors had to climb in backwards, through the small window. After brushing themselves free of snow, they introduced themselves as Matsui and Mejika, members of the famous Hōkōgikai.

This was the patriotic association that had recently sent an unofficial flotilla to the Chishima islands, to assert Japan's claim over these northern territories. Their attempt to overwinter in the sub-arctic archipelago had ended in fiasco the previous year.

What were the Hōkōgikai men doing up here? In a way, their madcap scheme resembled Nonaka's venture. It had been an attempt by private individuals, desperately short of funds and knowhow, to undertake something that would normally be reserved for the state. The same could be said, by the way, for the Antarctic foray of Lieutenant Shirase, another Hōkōgikai man, who would later win both notoriety and fame with his do-it-yourself attempt on the South Pole.

The next day, Itaru acknowledged these kindred spirits by penning a waka in their honour:

I pray to heaven
To protect these strong men
Defenders of our country's
Northern marches


As the Hōkōgikai party had brought up letters, Itaru and Chiyoko had sat up the whole night, inkbrush in hand, writing replies for their guests to take down with them. A price was paid for this loss of sleep. Chiyoko was already plagued by high-altitude headaches. Now the dry air caused her throat to swell up so that she was unable to eat or speak. How can I go on like this, she asked herself, seeing that, left alone, everything up here goes to rack and ruin…

In the second month of the Nonaka winter vigil atop Mt Fuji, things start to get difficult

Chiyoko was already plagued by high-altitude headaches. Now the dry air caused her throat to swell up so that she was unable to eat or speak. How can I go on like this, she asked herself. After a week, she could bear the pain no longer. She got Itaru to sharpen up a gimlet and plunge it into the swelling at the back of her throat. The relief was like a blessing from heaven. After that, the pain gradually eased, day by day.

Meanwhile, winter was stealing up on them. Since late October, frost had coated the hut’s walls and ceiling. Now everything that had moisture in it froze solid. Sugar crumbled and lost its taste, pickled plums shrivelled into rock-hard pellets, rice quickly congealed into a block that you couldn't dent with a pair of fire-tongs.

Yet Chiyoko was enjoying herself. She was amused by the way she had to smash through an icy crust before she could drink her tea. She laughed, and so did Itaru, when he mistakenly touched a writing brush to an iron tool and no amount of pulling would unfreeze its bristles.

One day, she had to go out to collect ice for the pot, but the door was again frozen shut. Pouring hot water over it only sealed the door more firmly shut. Realising there was no other way, she wrenched the window open and crawled out backwards. Whereupon the wind seized the hem of her kimono and blew it about her ears. Fortunately, there was nobody outside to see.

Regaining her composure, she looked about at the extraordinary landscape. Far from being overmastered by her surroundings, she was fascinated by them. Looking carefully at the unearthly scene, she made a mental note for her diary:

The icicles at the cliff’s edge did not hang down, as they usually do, but grew at the wind’s behest, some jutting sideways from the rocks, others thrusting skywards in serried ranks. They looked to me like a mountains of swords, an awe-inspiring sight.

Itaru had chosen to build his hut on the very edge of Fuji's western rim, in the teeth of the prevailing winds. Rebounding from the cliffs, the spindrift blew through every cranny in the hut. The couple tried hanging blankets down the inside walls, but still the wind pierced through. It seemed to flay the skin rather than freeze it.

With blankets hung all around, the hut’s interior was dark even during the day. Indeed, she thought, the world of darkness will be like this. Yet conditions in the hut were nothing like as harsh as the cave at Kamakura where that medieval Prince Morinaga was imprisoned. (Where did she get that kind of learned allusion? Well, you’d expect no less from a noh-master’s daughter.)

While keeping up her diary, Chiyoko also had to worry about the store-keeping. They were using more charcoal, firewood, sugar, pickled plums – in fact, just about more of everything – than they expected. However, they couldn’t very well survive the ferocious winter of Mt Fuji if they didn’t burn wood and charcoal as they needed to. Now things were starting to get difficult, she reflected...

In the second month of Itaru and Chiyoko Nonaka's winter vigil on the summit of Mt Fuji, the cold and the monotonous diet start to affect their health ....

Soon she had something more to trouble her. Around November 5, her arms and legs started to swell. Two weeks later, her eyes gummed up. Itaru was full of concern. The couple decided on a change of diet. At first, they’d lived mainly on rice, but the low boiling point at this height made it almost impossible to cook properly. From now on, they chose to eat kudzu starch and adzuki bean gruel sprinkled with sugar at every meal.

The change in regime seemed to work. By the end of the month, Chiyoko felt better. But both she and Itaru had lost their appetites – now they were eating only twice a day, living mainly off gruel. They could no longer face the tinned meat.

Itaru had meanwhile dug out the threshold so that the frozen door could, at last, be opened. This was timely, because on December 12, they heard a great shout from outside: “Oi, Nonaka-san, are you alive in there or are you dead?” The door was pulled open and in came two men from Nakahata, beating the snow from their coats. The village headman and a porter had brought gifts and letters with them.

The visitors were shocked at Nonaka’s appearance – now he too had started to suffer from the swollen legs and arms that mark the onset of scurvy. And Itaru did not deny that he sometimes felt at the end of his tether. “But it’s for the good of our country, and I’m determined to see it out,” he insisted when the villagers suggested that he came down from the mountain to recover his strength. “I don’t think I’m in such a bad state that I’m going to die,” he said, putting an end to the discussion.

The villagers were reluctant to leave the couple in their evidently weakened state, but the wind was blowing more and more wildly, threatening to cut off their retreat. Itaru seized a pencil and jotted down a message for the family in Tokyo: "We were prepared for hardship at the summit, and we're still safe and sound, so please tell everybody not to worry about us." Then he implored the villagers not to reveal that he was ill.

The village headman was moved. “Any man who undertakes a great project needs enormous patience and the wholehearted support of his wife,” he said, turning to Chiyoko. “And now I see all the more clearly how true that is. Please take care of yourselves.” With that, the two men made their way out into the howling spindrift. Chiyoko said nothing, but a glow of happiness suffused her, as if a deep red peony of kind thoughts had burst into flower.

All Japan is taking an interest in the fate of the couple overwintering on the summit of Mt Fuji - but now Nonaka Itaru's health begins to fail...

While talking to their guests, the couple had time to look only at the letters from their family. Only after the porters had left could they read the others and now, for the first time, they realised that the whole of Japan was taking an interest in them. The newspapers, it seemed, had stamped a seal of wholehearted approval on Chiyoko's decision to join her husband.

Huddled over the table in their hut, Itaru and Chiyoko opened the rest of their letters. Several were poetic tributes - elegantly written waka - from complete strangers.

Gazing at Fuji morn and night
And looking up at its lambent snows
I cannot help but think of those
Secluded on the mountain's height


Thus trilled the wife of the Asahi Newspaper's editor. Another missive came from the head of a religious sect, and there was even a small packet enclosing a generous sum in gold pieces and a poem from Viscount Mōri Mototoshi, the governor of Shimonoseki. Most welcome of all, Itaru's sister Tsuruko had sent up some quilted jackets that she'd made herself.

Itaru still insisted on taking all the weather readings by himself, twelve times a day. But exhaustion was setting in. By mid-December, he was struggling even to cross the hut's tiny living space without taking a rest. As they'd finished all the adzuki beans, they now had to subsist on kudzu starch gruel. But soon they were down to the last day's ration even of that.

Chiyoko wondered what to do - although the new diet had brought down the swellings on Itaru's arms and legs he would have a relapse if the gruel ran out. Wada-sensei of the Meteorological Observatory had said he would make a visit soon, bringing supplies. But would he arrive in time?

In late November, with food stocks running low at the summit observatory on Mt Fuji, Itaru is weakened by scurvy. Then his sponsor from Tokyo arrives for an inspection…

Would Wada-sensei of the Meteorological Observatory in Tokyo bring more supplies in time? Chiyoko didn’t know but she set to work drawing up a list of essentials. They were low on adzuki beans, sugar, umeboshi, dried oranges, noodles and many other things. She exchanged grim jokes with her husband: many a conversation began with the phrase “Even if we starve ourselves to death…”

As November 21st marked the anniversary of the death of Itaru’s grandfather, the couple decided to hold a small ceremony. Itaru wrote his grandfather’s name on a strip of paper and Chiyoko placed an offering of soup and a scrap of bread in front of this makeshift shrine. There wasn’t much else they could give.

Just as they were finishing their prayers, the couple heard voices outside, over the sound of the wind. Was this a dream? No, four of the Nakahata villagers had climbed up to visit them. They’d escorted Wada-sensei as far as a hut at the eighth station of Mt Fuji, where he’d stopped, and they’d return tomorrow, bringing the meteorologist with them.

They were as good as their word. The next morning, Wada-sensei stamped the snow from his boots at the entrance to the hut and made his way into the dark interior. When his eyes had adjusted to the gloom, he was shocked at what he saw. It was as the porters had said: Nonaka Itaru was in a bad way; he was a changed man.

Wada was not a man to approach matters obliquely: “If you want to live, you need to get off this mountain now,” he told Itaru. “When we last met, you promised me that, if you felt your life was in danger, you’d do your best to go down before matters got out of hand.”

Itaru admitted that he’d said just that. “But I don’t think I’m so ill that I might die in the next day or two,” he said. “Couldn’t you just bring me some medicine, so that I can get over this illness and carry on my mission?”

Wada-sensei has climbed Mt Fuji to insist that Itaru and Chiyoko cut short their winter vigil. Now the debate becomes heated…

Itaru was dismayed at the suggestion that he should end his stay on the summit: “Couldn’t you just bring me some medicine, so that I can get over this illness and carry on my mission?” he asked.

Wada seemed to be moved: “I’m impressed by your spirit,” he said, “but, alas, mind can’t always prevail over matter – and I’m far from sure that your health is going to hold up much longer. You have to understand that I’ve climbed up here not as Wada the private person but as Wada with the authority of the Emperor’s commission behind me. So I really must ask you to come down with us.”

Itaru wavered: nobody could defy the Emperor’s command – but where was the proof of that authority? Wada was outraged at the question: “There’s no need for evidence in a situation like this. You have no right to doubt me!” he said.

“I don’t doubt you,” replied Itaru in a conciliatory tone, “but please understand my position. I let people know that I would see out the winter here, and what are they going to say if I give up now because of some trivial illness? It would put me in a very difficult position. My aim is to build a larger observatory up here, and if I can’t succeed, it’s better to stay up here and die – if I give up now, people will think it’s impossible to survive the winter up here…”

But at last Itaru had to accept Wada’s order. He looked so dispirited that tears came to the eyes of the army captain and police officer who’d accompanied Wada-sensei. It was at this moment that Chiyoko spoke up: “Won’t you reconsider?” she asked Wada. “My husband has devoted himself to this work for seven years. It would be a bitter defeat to go down now – couldn’t you let him stay a while longer?”

“Surely even a woman can’t be that unreasonable,” Wada retorted, raising his voice. “Your courage is admirable, but can’t you see how sick your husband is? He’ll die if he stays up here any longer. Surely you’ve made enough weather observations by now…” For a moment, Chiyoko was stunned by the vehemence of Wada’s words. Then she burst into tears.

Wada-sensei of the Central Meteorological Observatory organises the highest and most perilous mountain rescue ever attempted in Japan

Time was moving on: “We need to hurry before the weather turns,” urged Wada-sensei as he gave out orders. He’d seen at once that Itaru and Chiyoko were too debilitated to descend the mountain themselves; they would have to be carried. Itaru was too weak to demur but, as he was hoisted onto the back of a porter, he found the strength to murmur one last poem:

As the catalpa bow
Springs back, so will I;
Do not believe
That for long I go


Then Chiyoko, in her turn, was hoisted up and the party set out into the whirling maelstrom outside. When gusts of spindrift blew up in their faces from inside the crater yawning at their feet, it seemed to Chiyoko that the two porters Kumakichi and Tsurukichi stood their ground against the raging elements like the pair of Deva kings who guard the gates of a temple.

With the rest of the party helping to steady them against the buffeting wind, the porters made their way along the narrow rim of the crater to the shrine buildings, half-buried in snow, next to the Ginmeisui. In this season, of course, there was no trace of that shallow pool of water and snow-drifts had buried the buildings to their eaves.

Here the party paused. Wada-sensei peered down into the clouds at the gulf beneath. Where was the steep gully that led down to the eighth station? Wada’s party had come up it only this morning, but the wind had already erased their tracks. Should they trust themselves to the soft snow over there – that might be less dangerous than the icy sheen of the snow in the bed of the gully … Or maybe they’d better take to the rocks, somebody suggested.

With infinite care, the porters started downwards, kicking their primitive crampons into the ice, while Wada and his companions did their best to steady them with ropes. The gully channelled the furious wind into their faces, so that they could hardly breathe. Slumped on Kumakichi's back, Itaru felt the cold as a crushing weight on his chest, a weight that he could bear no longer. His eyes frozen shut by the blizzard, he sagged into blackness…

Wada-sensei carries through his rescue of Chiyoko and Itaru from the summit of Mt Fuji. And what happened then.

As Chiyoko was the first to be carried into the stone hut at the eighth station, she didn't know anything was amiss with her husband until the porters gently laid his inert body by the fire. His eyes were frozen shut and he was barely breathing. Helped by the police officer and army captain, Wada-sensei spent several hours trying to revive him.

Sometime in the middle of the night Itaru opened his eyes and the rescue party were able to relax their efforts. Next day, on December 23rd, the porters rigged up carrying frames for their passengers and, once more, Itaru and Chiyoko were hoisted up. Again, the wind hurled the snow into their faces as they left the hut, but this time they were protected by the mittens and hats provided by Wada-sensei.

After the meteorologist had briskly organised helpers to steady the two porters on the icy slopes, the party continued its descent. Below the eighth station, the angle of the slope would gradually ease but the wind buffeted them as strongly as ever. At the third station, a doctor met them, and a few hundred feet below, the villagers from Takigawara had brought up a cart for them. Late that night, they reached the village. Itaru's face was so frost-bitten that he still couldn't open his eyes.

Over the next few days, they were visited by scores of people from near and far, strangers as well as friends. A large pile of paper charms accumulated beside their beds. In case they didn't work, the University of Tokyo also sent one of its most eminent physicians to attend them. Itaru quickly regained his strength and set to work sketching out an improved observatory. If the summit hut were made of brick, for example, it would better keep out the wind and cold. He was determined to go back up there ...

And what happened afterwards?

As the years passed, Itaru refined his plans for an observatory. But he never did go back to Mt Fuji in winter. Nor was he able to join Japan's meteorological service. As for the pressure measurements that he and Chiyoko had so arduously gathered over their eighty-odd days on the summit, nobody ever made much use of them. Chiyoko's application to join the Japan Meteorological Association was turned down.

By contrast, Wada-sensei's career flourished. After Japan consolidated its grip on Korea, he was sent there to head up a new weather station. Unfortunately, this deprived Itaru of his mentor and patron. Instead of pursuing his dream of meteorological research, he eked out a living in Tokyo, supporting his family by renting out a house. More children arrived - there would be six in all - but little Sonoko, the toddler Chiyoko had left with her parents, took ill and died a few years later. She was just seven.

Yet Mr and Mrs Nonaka's feat was not forgotten. Somehow, in the best tradition of the glorious failure, it had captured the nation's imagination. Ten years after their return from Mt Fuji, we catch a glimpse of Chiyoko seeing off the multinational "Fuji Winter Ascent Corps" at Tokyo Station. Apparently, she is a leading light of the Konohana-kai, an association of women who have climbed Mt Fuji. To this day, though, she remains the only woman who has survived the best part of a winter up there.

For his part, Itaru meets the "Fuji Winter Ascent Corps" at Gotenba and leads its members up to their base camp or starting point at Takigawara. It must be quite a cavalcade: Itaru is mounted on a white horse, escorting some forty-three persons - including two foreigners, a Spaniard and a "Miss Sturzenegger" from Switzerland - four rear-guards, five messenger pigeons and a dog. Wisely, Itaru chooses not to accompany this motley group on its summit attempt.

In early 1923, Japan was swept by a flu epidemic. One by one, Itaru and the children fell sick. After Chiyoko had nursed everyone in the family through their illness, she caught the fever herself. It was too much for her: on February 22, she died at the age of fifty-one. The story goes that the Japanese government wanted to honour Itaru. But the would-be meteorologist wasn't interested in accepting an award in his own name - the work on Mt Fuji had been as much Chiyoko's as his own.

In the end, the government did build an observatory on Mt Fuji. The year after it opened, Itaru was invited to make a visit. He was now sixty-six but still quite spry. Accompanied by Kyoko, his third daughter, he reached the windy summit on a summer day in 1933 and called in on the observatory staff.

One of the summit crew who received him was a Fujiwara Hiroto, just turned twenty-one. The young meteorologist was struck by Kyoko's looks - of all the Nonaka children, Kyoko was the one who most took after Chiyoko. Only much later did Fujiwara get the idea of writing a novel about her parent's winter ordeal on Mt Fuji. By that time, some four decades later, he had long been established as a successful writer of mountain literature under the pen-name of Nitta Jirō.

Fuyo no Hito, Nitta's novel about the Nonaka couple ends with the aged Itaru's return to Mt Fuji in 1933, recreating the old man's return to the crater rim. The final scene might be pure fiction. Leaning on Kyoko's arm, Itaru makes his way from the modern observatory up to the ruins of his old hut. Not much has been left standing by the snows and gales of almost forty winters. The old man's eyes light on a beam that somehow still stands upright. Musingly, he pulls a nail out of the bleached timber, wraps it reverently in a cloth, and shows it to Kyoko. "Look" he says, "This is where she used to hang her Russian parka; she hammered in the nail herself." Then, without another word, he turns to go down ...

References

Summarised from a (we hope) forthcoming full translation (not Project Hyakumeizan's) of Fuyo Nikki. This is Chiyoko's own account of the Nonaka attempt to overwinter on Mt Fuji. It was first published as a series of magazine articles and then collected together with her husband's Fuji Annai (Guide to Mt Fuji).

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