奥の細道

The months and days are the travelers of eternity, and the passing years are also wayfarers. Those who float away their lives on boats or meet old age leading horses by the mouth are each day a journey, and they make their home in travel. Many of the ancients also died on the road.

I myself—I cannot recall from which year—was drawn by a spirit like a fragment of cloud blown by the wind, and my thoughts of wandering would not rest. I drifted along the seacoast. Last autumn, I swept the old cobwebs from my tumbledown hut on the river, and shortly the year came to an end. When spring came and the sky was hazy, I thought of crossing the Barrier of Shirakawa. Something of the gods seemed to possess my mind and disturb my heart, and the road gods beckoned to me, so that I could not keep my hands on anything. I mended my torn trousers, replaced the cord on my hat, and from the time I cauterized my legs with moxa at the third acupoint, the moon over Matsushima was already fixed in my heart. I gave up my dwelling to someone else and moved to the villa of Sampu.

The thatched door, too, in this changing world—a doll’s house.

I left these eight verses hanging on a post of the hut. On the last days of the third month, the sky at dawn was hazy, and the moon, though still bright, had lost its light. Yet Mount Fuji appeared faintly, and the cherry blossom tips of Ueno and Yanaka—when would I see them again? My heart grew heavy.

Among all my closest friends, from evening they gathered and came to see me off by boat. At a place called Senju, we stepped ashore. The thought of the three thousand leagues ahead weighed heavily on my heart, and I shed tears of parting in this phantom city.

Spring passes—birds cry, and in the eyes of fish, tears.

This I made the beginning of my writing brush. The road ahead still would not let me move forward. People lined up along the way, and until my back was no longer visible they must have been seeing me off.

This was the year Genroku 2. Had I lightly decided to set off on a long journey through the remote provinces of Ōu? I thought, even as I lamented the white hairs that now piled up against the vast heavens, that what touched my ears I had not yet seen with my eyes. If I should live and come back—such uncertain hopes I hung on. That day I finally managed to reach the inn called Sōka.

On my bony shoulders I carried only what I needed; I myself had prepared to leave, and so a single paper robe served as night protection, along with a summer kimono, rain gear, ink and brush, and various farewell gifts that I could not bring myself to throw away. They became a nuisance along the road.

I prayed at the Muro no Yashima shrine. My companion Sora said, “This god is the god of the flowering princess, and is one with Fuji. Because the god entered the room without a door and burned herself, and from the fire was born Hohodemi no Mikoto, it is called Muro no Yashima. And the practice of composing poems on smoke comes from this legend. It is also said that the fish called this shiro is forbidden, and the cause of this is widely told among men.”

On the thirtieth day we lodged at the foot of Nikkō Mountain. The host said, “My name is Butsu Gozaemon. Because I make honesty my rule, people call me that. Please, rest your head on the grass pillow tonight and relax.” What kind of Buddha had appeared in this defiled world of dust to help a man like a begging monk on a pilgrimage? I watched what the host did carefully, and found him simply ignorant, without discrimination, and stubbornly honest. He was one close to the kind of man who is resolute, simple in speech, and near to true humanity. The pure quality of his nature was especially worthy of respect.

On the first day of the fourth month I went up to worship at the mountain. In ancient times this mountain was written as Futara-yama, but when the great master Kūkai founded the temple, he changed the name to Nikkō—perhaps foreseeing a thousand years to come. Now this light shines across the whole sky, and its blessings overflow the eight corners of the land, and the people are at peace and dwell secure. There are many things too reverent to write, so I have laid down my brush.

How solemn and sacred—the fresh green leaves, the young leaves, bathed in the sunlight of the day!

Mount Kurokami was veiled in mist, and the snow still shone white.

Having shaved my head, I change my robes at Kurokami Mountain—Sora.

Sora was from the Kawai clan, and was called Sōgorō. He had been a neighbor under the same roof as my banana plant, helping me with my daily lot of water and firewood. For this journey he was delighted to share the sights of Matsushima and Kisakata, and to ease the hardships of travel. On the morning of departure, he shaved his head, changed into a black-dyed robe, and from Sōgo he became Sōgon. Hence the verse about Kurokami Mountain. The words “change robes” carry great force.

After climbing the mountain for about two hundred and fifty yards, there was a waterfall. It plunged from the top of a rocky cave, falling a hundred feet into a deep green pool. If you enter the cave and look out from behind the waterfall, it is called the View-from-Behind Waterfall.

A little while—let me stay within the waterfall, in early summer.

At a place known as Kurobane in Nasu, there was an acquaintance I wished to visit. I decided to cross the plain and take the direct road. I spotted a village in the distance and walked toward it, but rain began to fall and the day grew late. I borrowed a night at a farmer’s house. When morning came, I set out again across the plain. There was a horse grazing in the field. I spoke to a grass-cutter, and though he was a simple peasant, he was not without a kind heart. “What can I do? But this plain is crisscrossed in all directions, and a traveler can easily lose the path. It would be a problem. So please follow where this horse stops, and when it stops, send the horse back.” So saying, he lent me the horse. A small child—a girl of about ten—ran along behind the horse. She was called Kasane. Her name, so unusual and gentle, caught my ear.

Kasane—surely that must be the name of the double-petaled carnation.

Soon we reached a village. I tied a small fee to the saddle and sent the horse back.

I visited the deputy of Kurobane, the temple steward of Jōbōji, someone or other. Unexpectedly, the host was delighted, and we talked day and night. His younger brother, named Tōsui, also came to attend on me morning and evening, and even invited me to his own house. I was also received by their relatives. As the days passed, I strolled one day in the outskirts to see the site of the dog-hunting contests, parted the bamboo grass of Nasu, and paid my respects at the ancient tomb of Tamamo no Mae. Then I went to the Hachiman Shrine. When Yoshiie shot the fan target, he specially swore, “Let the patron god of our province, the True Hachiman, be with me”—this, I heard, was at this very shrine. The sacred power felt all the more real to me. As dusk fell, I returned to Tōsui’s house.

I was invited to a Shugendō temple called Kōmyō-ji and worshipped at the ascetic’s hall.

In the summer hills—the first step of my journey, bowing to the clogs of the saint.

In that province, at the far back of Ungan-ji, there was a hermitage once lived in by the priest Butchō. “A grass hut, less than five feet square—I would not bind it together if only it did not rain.” He was said to have written this on a rock with a piece of charcoal. Wanting to see that place, I turned my staff toward Ungan-ji. People eagerly came to invite me along with them. Many young people were noisily chatting on the way, and before I knew it, I had reached the foot of that mountain. The mountain seemed deep; the valley path stretched far away. The pines and cedars were dark, moss was dripping, and even in the fourth month the sky still felt cold. I crossed the bridge to make the ten scenic spots, entered the mountain gate, and asked, “Whereabouts might that hermitage be?” I climbed high up the back mountain, and found a small hut built over a cave on a rocky ledge.

It was like seeing the Death Gate of Myōzen or the stone cell of Hōun. The woodpecker, too, does not break the hut—in the summer grove. He left behind this unfinished verse on a pillar.

From there I went to the Killing Stone. The deputy sent me on a horse. The servant said, “Let me take the short sword as a tip.” How small a favor he wished for!

Across the field, turn the horse—cuckoo!

The Killing Stone lies in the shade of the mountain where the hot spring flows. The poisonous vapor of the stone has not yet vanished. Bees and butterflies pile up so thickly that the sand is not visible, and die. They said there was also a willow where clear water once flowed, left standing at the edge of a rice field in the village of Ashino. The district governor, Tohe of some clan, had often said, “I would like to show you this willow.” I had wondered where it could be, but today I stood in the shade of that very willow.

I plant a single field of rice, then leave the willow behind.

As the anxious days piled up, I finally reached the Barrier of Shirakawa, and my traveler’s heart settled. How natural that I should try to send word to the Capital! Among the three great barriers, this one is especially praised by poets, and it stirs the heart. I kept the sound of the autumn wind in my ears, and the autumn leaves in my memory, but even now, in the green leaves of early summer, the scene is still moving. The white deutzia flowers and the briar roses blooming together made it feel like crossing through snow. The ancients, it is said, adjusted their caps and changed their formal wear here—Kiyosuke has recorded it in his writing.

Deutzia flowers—adorn my hat, in my ceremonial dress at the barrier. Sora.

And so, as we went on, we crossed the Abukuma River. To the left rose the heights of Aizu, to the right were Iwaki, Sōma, Miharu, Hitachi, and Shimotsuke. We passed through a place called Kagenuma, but today the sky was cloudy, and the reflection did not appear. At the post station of Sukagawa, I sought out a man named Tōkyū, who kept me for four or five days. First he asked, “How did you cross the Barrier of Shirakawa?” The long journey had tired me in body and mind. Scenery stole my soul, and nostalgia tore at my heart, so I could not think clearly.

Where does the true spirit of poetry begin? The song of the rice-planters in the deep north.

“To cross it so lightly would be a pity,” we said, and so we continued to add a second and third verse, completing three linked poems.

Near this inn, there was a large chestnut tree, and a priest who had left the world relied on its shade. I thought: in the deep mountains, too, this must be a peaceful place, and I wrote something about it. The character for chestnut is written “west tree,” which is linked to the Western Pure Land. It is said that Gyōgi Bosatsu used this tree for his staff and walking stick all his life.

The world’s people do not see the flower—the chestnut by the eaves.

I left Tōkyū’s house and, after traveling about five miles, I left the post town of Hinoe. Near the road was Mount Asaka. There were many marshes in the area. Since the time for cutting katami reeds was drawing near, I asked people, “Which plant is the katami?” But no one knew. I searched around the marsh, asking everyone, “Katami? Katami?” until the sun had set behind the hills, and I turned off at Nihonmatsu to see the cave of Kurozuka, then lodged at Fukushima.

The next day, I sought the stone for stamping shinobu-zuri cloth in the village of Shinobu. Deep in the mountain’s shadow, there was a small village. The stone was half buried in the earth. A child from the village came and told me: “Long ago, it was on top of this mountain, but travelers would trample the wheat, and people grew angry and rolled it down into this valley. Now the inscribed side of the stone faces downward.” That seemed quite believable.

The hand that plants the young rice—is this the same as the old shinobu-zuri pattern?

I crossed the ferry at Tsukinowa and came out at the post town of Senoue. The old site of Satō Shōji lay about a mile and a half along the left ridge of the mountain. I heard the villages of Iizuka and Sabano and searched my way there. At a place called Maruyama, I found the large gate site and realized this was Shōji’s old mansion. Yielding to what people told me, I wept. At a nearby temple, a monument with the family line remained. Among them, the marks of the two daughters-in-law were especially touching. Though women, their worthy names had spread through the world. The fallen-tear steles were not far away. Entering the temple, I begged for tea; here they kept Yoshitsune’s sword and Benkei’s backpack as treasures.

The backpack and the sword—on the Fifth Day, decorate them with paper streamers.

This was the day of the Fifth Month festival. That night I lodged at Iizuka. There was a hot spring, so I bathed, but the inn was a miserable hovel with a straw mat laid directly on the dirt floor. No lamp. I laid out my bed by the dim firelight and lay down. As night deepened, thunder crashed and rain fell in torrents. The roof leaked above my bedding, and fleas and mosquitoes tormented me so I could not sleep. My chronic illness also returned, and I nearly blacked out. The short night’s sky at last began to lighten, and I rose to travel again. The shadows of the night still clung to my heart. I hired a horse and went out to the post town of Kōri.

The road stretched far ahead, and such illness made everything uncertain. But for a journey into the barbarian frontier, I held to the thoughts of abandoning my body to impermanence. “To die on the road is fate,” I told myself, and rallied what little strength I had. I crossed the Daimon Pass of Date district, passed through Abumi-suri, the castle of Shiroishi, and entered the district of Kasashima. I asked someone, “Where might be the grave of Fujiwara no Sanekata, the middle captain?” They told me, “Far to the right, in the village called Minowa no Kasashima. His wayside shrine still stands, with its thin autumn grass.” I was tired from the heavy rains and the bad roads, so I only looked from a distance and passed by. This fit the season well.

Kasashima—where is it? On the muddy road of the fifth month.

I lodged at Iwanuma. The pine of Takekuma felt as if I were waking from a dream. Its roots split into two trunks above the ground; I could see it had not lost its ancient form. I thought of the poet Nōin Hōshi, who had traveled here as governor of Michinoku. Some said that pine had been cut down for the bridge pillars of the Natori River. Was it because of this that Nōin wrote, “This time, the pine is nowhere to be seen”? Over the ages, some pines may have been cut, others replanted; but now this pine stood unbroken for a thousand years—a magnificent tree.

“O pine of Takekuma, please tell us—the cherry blossoms are late,” said Kyohaku. To this I replied, “Cherry? From the pine, two trunks—in the third month.”

I crossed the Natori River and entered Sendai. It was the day of the iris festival. I found a lodging and stayed four or five days. There was a painter, Kaemon, a man with some artistic feeling, so I made his acquaintance. He said he had spent years studying the old landmarks, leaving them uncertain, and offered to guide me one day. The bush clover of Miyagi Plain was thick, and I could imagine the autumn scenery. At Tamada and Yokono, the azalea hills were in full bloom. We entered a pine grove so dense that no sunlight came through; this, they said, was called Kinoshita. Long ago, someone wrote, “The dew is so deep, I fear it will wet my hat,” and indeed, it felt just so. We worshipped at the Yakushi Hall and the Tenjin Shrine, and the day ended. He painted pictures of Matsushima, Shiogama, and other places and gave them to me. He also gave me a pair of straw sandals, the cords dyed navy, as a farewell gift.

Indeed, it seems that the true heart of the wandering poet is revealed here.

Iris—I will tie you to my feet as the cords of my sandals.

Following the paintings, I slowly traveled on. At the edge of the Narrow Road to the Deep North, there was the suge of Tono. Even now, they weave the eleven-suge mats for the governor of the province.

The Pillar Stele of Tsubo-no-ishibumi at Ichikawa Village, Tagajō. The stele was over six feet tall and about three feet wide. Characters cut through the moss were faint. It recorded the distances between the four borders. It said: “In the first year of Jingi, the Commissioner and Commander-in-Chief of the Pacification and Defense Forces, Ōno no Sukune no Azumabito, built the government fort. In the sixth year of Tenpyō-hōji, the Imperial Adviser and Governor of the Eastern Districts, the Commander-in-Chief, Emi no Sukune no Asakari, repaired and built it on the first day of the twelfth month.” This was in the reign of the Emperor Shōmu. Many poems from ancient times speak of famous places, but mountains crumble, rivers change course, roads are rerouted, stones are buried in earth, old trees give way to new—only this stone, here before my eyes, an unchanging monument of a thousand years, let me touch the hearts of the ancients.

This is the virtue of the traveler. The joy of being alive, the forgetting of hardship. I could not stop my tears.

From there I went to see the jewel stream of Noda and the stone of Oki. At the Pine of Sue, they had built a temple and called it the Last Pine. All around were graves; the vows of lovers who had joined wings and branches ended like this—I felt only sadness. I walked into the shore of Shiogama, where I heard the evening bell. The fifth-month rains had cleared a little, and the evening moon shone faintly. Magaki Island was close. The fishing boats came in together, and the voices of the men dividing the catch stirred my heart. I remembered the poem, “How sad it is, tied to the line,” and felt it deeply. That night, a blind minstrel played his biwa and recited a piece called “Okujōruri.” It was neither the Heike nor a dance—a rustic melody lifted up, so near my pillow that it was almost oppressive. And yet, this was a lingering tradition of the borderlands, and I found it strangely moving.

At dawn, I went to worship at the Shiogama Shrine. The provincial governor had rebuilt it; the pillars were splendid, the painted rafters bright, the stone steps piled high. The morning sun shone on the vermilion fence. Even here, at the far edge of the road, this dusty corner, the spirit of the gods was manifest—this, I thought, is the custom of our land, and it is admirable.

In front of the shrine there was a pagoda, and on the face of a bronze door was inscribed “Third Year of Bunji, donated by Izumi no Saburō.” After five hundred years, the memory rose before my eyes, and I felt an unusual reverence. A man of courage, loyalty, and filial piety! Truly, a person should pursue the Way and uphold righteousness, and his name will follow.

The day was already near noon. I hired a boat and crossed to Matsushima, a distance of some two miles. We landed on the shore of Ojima. Though it is not new to say so, Matsushima is the most beautiful scenery in all Japan. It rivals Dongting Lake and the West Lake in China. The sea enters from the southeast, forming a river three miles wide, and the tide of Zhejiang pours in. Countless islands jut high, some pointing to the sky, some crawling along the waves; some are doubled, others piled in three layers; to the left they separate, to the right they link again; some embrace, others carry children on their backs—like a family of grandchildren. The green of the pines is deep, their branches bent by the sea wind, naturally curved as if trained. The whole scene is exquisite—a painted beauty, or the work of the ancient gods. Who could wield a brush or exhaust words to describe the artistry of nature?

The island of Ojima is a piece of land jutting into the sea. There are traces of the hermitage of the priest Unkō, and a meditation stone. In the shadow of the pines, men who had renounced the world lived here and there. A thatched hut smoked quietly—I could not tell who it belonged to. Then, suddenly, the moon was mirrored on the sea, and the daytime view was transformed. Returning to the shore, I found an inn with a second floor and open windows. Sleeping while traveling among the wind and clouds—I felt a strange and wonderful feeling.

Matsushima—even the cuckoo, body cleansed by dew. Sora.

I closed my mouth and tried to sleep, but could not. When I left my old hut, Sodo had given me a poem on Matsushima, and Yūan had sent a waka on the scene of Matsugaura Island. I opened the bag and made them my companions for the night. Sampū and Dōsui had also given me verses.

On the eleventh, I visited the temple of Zuigan-ji. Thirty-two generations ago, Makabe no Heishirō took holy orders, went to China, and returned to found the temple. Through the virtue of the priest Unkō, the seven halls were rebuilt; the golden walls shone, and it became a glorious temple of the Pure Land. I wondered where the temple of Kenbutsu-Shō might be.

On the twelfth, I set my heart toward Hiraizumi. I had heard of the “ane ha matsu” and the bridge of “oda no e.” Even pheasants and rabbits were rare here—only woodcutters and herb gatherers passed by, and I could not tell which way to go. At last I lost the path and came out at a harbor called Ishinomaki. I saw the golden flower mountain—someone had made an offering of the poem “kogane hana saku”—spread out across the sea. Hundreds of ships lay in the inlet; houses crowded the land, and smoke rose from the stoves. I never expected to come to such a place! I tried to find lodging, but no one would take me in. Finally, I passed the night in a cramped little house. When morning came, I lost my way again. I walked on, passing Sode-no-watari, Obuchi no Maki, and the reeds of Makano, then followed a long, lonely dike across a desolate lake. I lodged one night at Toima and then reached Hiraizumi. The distance was about twenty miles.

The glory of three generations vanished in a dream. The site of the great gate lay a mile away. The ruins of Hidehira were now fields; only the Golden Rooster Mountain still kept its shape. First I climbed the high Takadachi. The Kitakami River, a great stream, flowed from the south. The Koromo River ran around the castle of Izumi and fell into the great river below Takadachi. The sites of Kō no Hyōe and his comrades were here, guarding the Koromo Barrier and fortifying the entrance to the south against the barbarians. But then the loyal heart was defeated, and those who held the castle became a dream of fame. “The country is destroyed, but the mountains and rivers remain; the castle is in bloom, but the grass is green.” I sat down on my hat and wept until the time had passed.

Summer grass—the aftermath of the warriors’ dreams.

Deutzia flowers—or is it the white hair of Kanehira? Sora.

The two halls I had long heard of were opened for worship. The Sūtra Hall held the statues of the three generals; the Hikaru Hall held the three coffins, with a triad of Buddhas. The seven treasures had decayed, the jade doors were broken by the wind, the golden pillars rotted by the dew and frost—soon they would crumble into empty ruins. But for now, the roofs were newly thatched to shield them from wind and rain, preserving them for a while as a thousand-year relic.

The rains of the fifth month have passed—still, Hikaru Hall remains.

I saw the road of Nanbu far in the distance and lodged at the village of Iwate. I passed by Kurobana-saki, Mitsu-no-koshima, and then, from the hot springs of Narugo, I set out for the Barrier of Urazen and crossed into Dewa Province. Since travelers rarely passed this way, the barrier guards were suspicious, and I was finally allowed through. I climbed a great mountain, and as the day was already late, I spotted a gatekeeper’s house and asked for shelter. For three days the wind and rain raged, and I stayed trapped in that miserable mountain.

Fleas and lice—a horse urinates by my pillow.

The host said, “From here, a great mountain separates us from Dewa Province. The road is uncertain; you should hire a guide to cross.” So I did. A strong young man, with a short sword at his side and carrying a staff of oak, led the way. “Today,” he said, “we might meet with dangers,” and I felt anxious as I followed behind. As the host had warned, the high mountains were dark, not a bird sang, and it was as though we were walking through the night. The path was so steep that the sky seemed to rain dust. We pushed through thickets of bamboo grass, crossed streams, scrambled up rocks, and sweated cold drops until we finally emerged into the domain of Mogami. The guide said, “This road usually has its troubles. I am glad I could bring you through safely,” and he left, rejoicing. Those who heard the tale later must have shuddered.

At Obanazawa I sought out a man called Seifū. He was wealthy, but not base-minded. He had often traveled to the capital and understood the feelings of a traveler. He kept me for many days and gave me all kinds of care for the long journey.

How cool—I make my lodgings where I am, and sleep.

Crawl out—from under the lamp—the toad’s voice.

I think of the eyebrow brush—the safflower flower.

The silkworm keeper is dressed in the ancient form. Sora.

In the domain of Yamagata there was a mountain temple called Risshaku-ji, founded by the great master Jikaku. It was a place of special quiet and purity. At the urging of many, I turned back from Obanazawa and went there—about seven miles. The day had not yet darkened, so I left my pack at a lodging at the foot of the mountain and climbed up to the temple hall. Rock piled upon rock, mountain pines and cedars old, moss smooth on the aged stones. The doors of the halls on the rocks were closed; no sound came. I circled the cliffs, crept over the rocks, and worshipped before the Buddha halls. The beautiful view was still and lonely—it felt as if my heart were being cleansed.

How still—the cicadas’ voices sink into the rocks.

I waited for fair weather in a place called Ōshida on the Mogami River. Here, old poetic seeds of haikai had fallen, and I remembered the forgotten flowers of the past. I softened my heart with the sound of a single note on the reed pipe and groped my way along this path, wavering between the old and new schools. But without a guide, I could only leave a single, unsatisfying scroll behind. In this journey, I had finally come to this.

The Mogami River rises in Michinoku, and its source is in Yamagata. It has fearsome rapids called the “koden” and “hayabusa.” Flowing north of Itajiki Mountain, it ends at the sea at Sakata. The river runs between steep, tree-covered mountains. The boats used here are called “ina-bune.” The White Thread Falls fell through gaps in the green leaves, and the Hermit’s Hall stood on the bank. The river was swollen, and the boat was in danger.

They gather the fifth-month rains—and quickly flows the Mogami River.

On the third day of the sixth month, I climbed Mount Haguro. I sought out a man called Zusho Saikichi, and through him met the abbot, the ācārya Kai. He put me up in a hermitage in the Southern Valley and showed me great kindness.

How blessed—in the Southern Valley, it snows.

On the fourth day, a haikai gathering was held at the main temple. On the fifth, I worshipped at the shrine of the manifestation. The mountain had been opened by Nōjo-daishi, but in what period I do not know. In the Engishiki, it is written as the “Shrine of Habashūriyama.” Perhaps the character for “shu” was misread as “sato.” “Habashūriyama” was shortened to “Haguroyama.” The name “Dewa” means “feather,” and the province offered feathers as tribute, according to the Fudoki. Together with Mount Gassan and Mount Yudono, these are the Three Mountains. The temple is affiliated with the Tōeizan of Edo, and the moon of the Tendai contemplation shines bright; the lamp of the perfect and sudden dharma is held high. The temples stand in rows, and the mountain ascetics practice their discipline. The sacred power, long and prospering, is both revered and feared. It is a truly admirable mountain.

On the eighth, I climbed Mount Gassan. Binding a sacred rope around my body, wrapping a jeweled crown over my head, I was led by a strong pilgrim through clouds and mountain mist. I trod on ice and snow for eight miles. I wondered if I had entered the very gate of the sun and moon. My breath failed, and my limbs were frozen. When I reached the summit, the sun had set and the moon appeared. I lay down on a spread of bamboo grass, pillowed my head on a clump of thin bamboo, and waited for dawn. When the sun rose and the clouds cleared, I descended to the valley where the Yudono hot spring lies. There was a blacksmith’s hut in the valley. The blacksmith of this province chose pure water, purified himself, and forged swords. In the end, he inscribed the name “Gassan” and his swords were prized throughout the land. He quenched his swords in the Dragon Spring, just like Kanshō and Moya of old—I could see his deep devotion to the Way.

I rested a while on a rock. There was a cherry tree, only about three feet tall, its buds half open. Buried under the drifts of snow, it had not forgotten spring. The heart of the late cherry blossom is patient—blooming as if in the heat of summer. I thought of the poem by the bishop Gyōson, and it felt even more true. All the subtle practices of this mountain, as a rule for ascetics, are forbidden to be told to outsiders. So I will put down my brush and say no more. When I returned to the hermitage, at the request of the abbot, I wrote on tanzaku the verses for the three-mountain pilgrimage.

How cool—only a glimpse of the moon over Mount Haguro.

How many peaks have crumbled away—the mountain of the moon.

I cannot speak—my sleeves are wet at Yudono.

At the mountain of Yudono, I step on coins with tears. Sora.

I left Haguro and arrived at the castle town of Tsurugaoka. I was received by a man named Nagayama Shigeyuki, and we had a haikai session there. Saikichi also came along to see me off. I boarded a riverboat and went down to the port of Sakata. I lodged at the home of a physician, Fuan Fuma.

Azumi Mountain and Yomogaura—I take the evening cool.

The sun sets into the sea—the Mogami River.

I could not exhaust the river and sea scenery, and now my mind was drawn to Kisakata. From the port of Sakata, I crossed mountains, followed the shore, and walked through sand for ten miles. Toward evening, the sea breeze blew up the sand; Mount Chōkai was hidden. In the darkness, I struggled on. Rain would be fine, I thought, and in fact a clear spell after rain would be welcome. I squeezed my knees into a fisherman’s hut and waited for the rain to clear.

The next morning, the sky was beautifully clear, and as the morning sun shone brilliantly, I pushed a boat out into the lagoon of Kisakata. First, I stopped at Nōin Island to visit the traces of his three-year retreat. When I moved the boat toward the opposite shore, I saw the old cherry tree that had been the subject of the poem, “I row along, over the flowers.” It still stood, a memento of the priest Saigyō. On the shore there was a mausoleum; they said it was the tomb of Empress Jingū. The temple was called Kanmanju-ji. I had never heard that the Empress traveled here. What could it all mean?

I sat in the abbot’s chamber and rolled up the blinds. The whole scene lay before my eyes. To the south, Mount Chōkai stood against the sky; its reflection lay in the lagoon. To the west, the road toward the barriers of Munya was visible. To the east, a dike led toward Akita. To the north, the sea waters came in through a channel called Shiogoshi. The lagoon was about a mile across. The scene was like Matsushima, yet also different. Matsushima seems to smile, while Kisakata looks as if it is grieving. Loneliness mixed with sorrow; the very landscape troubles the spirit.

Kisakata—rain, and the face of Xishi sleeping behind the silk screen.

The tide-crossing—the cranes’ legs wet with the ocean cool.

Kisakata—what dishes will you make for the gods? Sora.

At the fisherman’s house—spreading floorboards, the evening cool. The Mino merchant.

I saw a hawk’s nest on the rocks.

It does not cross the waves yet still keeps its vow—a fishhawk’s nest. Sora.

The days lingered at Sakata. I gazed toward the clouds of the Hokuriku Highway, and the distant thought pained my heart. I heard that I had a hundred and thirty miles to go to Kaga Province. I crossed the Barrier of Nezu and entered Echigo Province, where I changed my mode of travel. At the Barrier of Ichifuri in Etchū Province, after nine days of suffering from the heat and dampness that tormented my spirit, my illness returned, and I could not write.

The seventh month—even the sixth day is not like any ordinary night.

The rough sea stretches toward Sado Island—the Milky Way lies across.

Today I crossed the great dangers of the Hokuriku—Oyashirazu, Koshirazu, Inu-tori, and Koma-gaeshi—among the most perilous places in the north. I was exhausted, so I pulled my pillow close and lay down to sleep. From the next room, I heard the voices of two young women and an older man. They were speaking. They were prostitutes from Niigata in Echigo Province, on a pilgrimage to Ise. The man had seen them as far as this barrier, and tomorrow he would have to go back to his home village. They were writing farewell letters and giving him trivial messages to deliver.

“Drifting on the shore of the white waves, despising this transient world—a helpless fate, day by day—how wretched is this karma!” they said. I listened, fell asleep, and in the morning, as I left, they spoke to me: “Your journey ahead is unknown—how sad and uncertain we feel! Let us follow at a distance, unnoticed; in your kindness, grant us a bond of compassion,” and they wept. A pitiful sight, indeed. But I replied, “We often stop at various places; we must go where others go. The gods will surely protect you.” I left them. Still, the sadness lingered long.

One house—prostitutes, too, are sleeping under the moon and the bush clover. I told this to Sora and wrote it down.

I crossed the forty-eight rapids of Kurobe, a river with countless crossings I cannot number, and came to the shore of Nago. I asked someone about the wisteria-covered burden baskets I had heard of; it was said they were five miles farther along the coast, past the shadows of the hills ahead. The fishermen’s thatched huts looked so lonely that I was warned I could hardly hope to find lodging for a night among the reeds. I entered Kaga Province.

The scent of the early rice—the water divides as we part the reeds.

I crossed the Ubaga-take and the Kurikara Valley and entered Kanazawa on the fifth day of the seventh month. A merchant from Osaka named Soko shared my lodging. I had heard vaguely of a man called Isshō, who had some interest in this Way, and had been waiting for him. But last winter, I learned, he had died young. His elder brother held a memorial service.

The grave mound, too, must tremble—my weeping voice is autumn’s wind.

Someone invited me to a hermitage.

Autumn chill—each hand prepares melons and eggplants.

A poem on the road:

Bright, bright—the sun is heartless in the autumn wind.

At the place called Komatsu:

What a lovely name—Komatsu, hung with bush clover and thin grasses.

I worshipped at the Ota Shrine. There was a helmet with gold-embroidered silk cords. Long ago, when the shrine belonged to the Genji clan, Lord Yoshitomo had given it to Sanemori. It was certainly not the work of the Heike—the dragon-head and gold-lace chrysanthemum arabesque on the brim and neckguard, the tiger-lily crest on the crown. After Sanemori was killed, Kiso Yoshinaka sent it, along with a petition, to this shrine, where it has been kept. The details were clear from the record, as related by Higuchi no Jirō.

How pitiful—under the helmet, a cricket.

As I walked on, Mount Shiroiwa faded behind me. On the left, by the roadside, there was a Kannon Hall. The Emperor Hanayama, after completing the thirty-three-pilgrimage circuit, enshrined the image of the Great Compassionate One here and named the place Nata. It is said he separated the characters of “Nachisan.” Strange rocks of many shapes, old pines paired together, and a small hall thatched with cogon grass built over the rocks—a truly sacred spot.

The rocks of Ishiyama—even whiter than the autumn wind.

I bathed in the hot springs. It is said their virtue is second only to Ariake.

In the mountains—the chrysanthemum has not been picked, the steam of the hot springs.

The host was a boy named Kumenosuke. He told me his story: “I love haikai. When I was young, I came here at the time of Teishitsu of Kyoto, but I was humiliated by the fashionable poets. I returned to Kyoto and became a disciple of the old master Teitoku. After I gained some reputation, I never came back to collect the fee for judging this village’s verses.” Now it seemed just an old tale.

Sora was suffering from stomach pain and went on ahead to the province of Ise, to a place called Nagashima.

Go on, go on—even if I collapse on the way, I will lie down in a field of bush clover. Sora.

So he wrote. The grief of the departing and the regret of those left behind—like two geese separated, wandering in the clouds. I, too, wrote:

From today, I shall also write on my hat’s dew.

At the temple of Daishōji, now called Zenshōji, I lodged. This was still in Kaga Province. Sora, too, had stayed here the night before and had left a verse:

All night I listen to the autumn wind—the mountain behind the temple.

That single night’s separation felt like a thousand miles. I, too, listened to the autumn wind, lying in the common hall, and as dawn broke, the clear voices of the monks reciting sutras came through, and then the bell struck for the morning meal. Today I would go to Echizen Province. In my haste, I started down from the hall. Young monks, carrying brushes and paper, came chasing down the steps. Just then, the willow in the courtyard shed its leaves.

Sweep the garden, then leave the temple—the fallen willow.

I went on, and at the border of Echizen, I rowed out into the inlet of Yoshizaki to see the pine of Shiogoshi.

All night, the storm drove the waves—the moon cleared over the pine of Shiogoshi.

This single poem exhausted the whole scene. To add a word would be to put a useless finger to it.

I visited the elder of the Tenryū Temple at Maruoka, an old acquaintance. Also, a man called Hokushi of Kanazawa, whom I had briefly missed, followed me here. He showed me the landscapes he had passed, and from time to time shared touching compositions with me. Now, at parting:

I write something, tear the fan—a keepsake.

I entered the mountain fifty blocks deep to pay homage at the temple of Eihei-ji, the temple of Zen Master Dōgen. He fled the great opportunity of the country and left his traces in these mountain shadows—it must have had a noble cause.

Fukui was only about three miles away. I prepared my evening meal and set out in the twilight, groping my way along the road. Here there lived an old hermit named Tōsai. Ten years ago, or more, he had come to Edo and sought me out. I wondered if he had grown decrepit, or perhaps died. When I asked about him, I heard he was still alive, living somewhere. I went quietly into the city and found a small, wretched house. Evening glories and gourds hung over the door; the roosters and brooms hid the gate. “This must be the place,” I thought, and knocked. A woman, looking lonely, came out. “Where have you come from, reverend? The master has gone to someone in the neighborhood. If you have business, please go and ask for him.” She must have been his wife. In the old tales, such a meeting is often described. I soon found him and stayed at his house for two nights.

When I left for the port of Tsuruga to see the harvest moon, Tōsai insisted on accompanying me. He tucked up his skirt and, in high spirits, said he would guide me along the road.

White Root Mountain is hidden, and Hinasaka Island appears. I crossed the bridge of Asamutsu. The reeds of Tamae were already in tassels. I passed Shide no Seki, the Uguisu Barrier, and crossed the Yuno-o Pass. At the castle of Hōtō, I saw the first geese of autumn on Kaeriyama. On the evening of the fourteenth, I found lodging at the port of Tsuruga.

That night, the moon was clear. “Will tomorrow night be like this?” I asked. The host replied, “In the roads of Echizen, it is hard to predict clear or cloudy tomorrow night.” He offered me sake. I went to the Kēhi Shrine to worship by night. It was the shrine of Emperor Chūai. The shrine grounds were sacred in their silence. Between the pines, the moon shone in, and the white sand before the altar looked like a layer of frost. Long ago, the second traveling saint made a great vow to clear the road of mud, carrying grass and stones on his own back, so that pilgrims would have no trouble. This custom is still kept: every year, the saint carries sand before the shrine. “We call this the saint’s sand-carrying,” the host told me.

How clear the moon—over the sand the traveling saint carries.

On the fifteenth, it rained, as the host had said.

Harvest moon—how uncertain the weather in the northern provinces!

On the sixteenth, the sky cleared. I wanted to gather the small masuho shells, so I sailed to Tane-no-hama, seven miles out to sea. A man named Tenya had prepared baskets, bamboo tubes, and other things in detail, and loaded many servants into the boat. With a following wind, we reached the shore in no time. The beach had only a few crude fishermen’s huts and a forsaken Hokke-ji temple, where we drank tea and warmed sake. I could hardly bear the loneliness of the evening.

How lonely—this shore on autumn surpasses Suma.

Between the waves—the small shells mixed with the dust of bush clover.

That same day, I had Tōsai write down a verse and left it at the temple. Road, too, came out to this port to meet me. With the help of a horse from Mino Province, I entered the estate of Ōgaki. Then Sora came from Ise; Kyojin also came on horseback. We gathered at the house of Jōkō. Maekawa-shi, Keikō and his son, and other close friends came to see me. They welcomed me as if I had come back to life. I was both happy and grateful. The weariness of the journey had not yet passed, but on the sixth day of the ninth month, I boarded a boat again to worship at the shrine of Ise.

The clam opens its two shells—I say goodbye to autumn on my way.

The days and months are travelers of a hundred generations, and the years that come and go are also wayfarers. Those who float their lives away on boats, or who meet old age leading horses by the mouth, spend every day traveling and make travel their home. Many of the ancients died on the road.

For myself, I cannot remember from what year I was drawn by the fleeting clouds and could not stop my restless thoughts of wandering. I wandered along the seacoast. Last autumn, I swept the spider’s webs from my broken hut on the river, and the year soon came to an end. When spring arrived and the sky was hazy, I thought of crossing the Shirakawa Barrier, possessed by the gods who stir the heart and confuse the mind. Meeting the invitation of the travel gods, I could not grasp what I took in hand. I patched the torn trousers, changed the cord on my hat, and from the time I applied moxa to my shins, the moon over Matsushima was already fixed in my heart. I gave up my dwelling to someone else and moved to Sōga’s detached villa.

On the grass-thatched door, The dwelling changes— A house in the countryside.

I hung eight verses on the pillar of my hut. On the seventh day of the last month of spring, the dawn sky was faint and hazy, the moon still lingering, its light already fading. Yet Mount Fuji appeared dimly in the distance, and the treetops of the cherry blossoms at Ueno and Yanaka stirred a lonely feeling—when would I see them again?

My close friends gathered from the evening and saw me off by boat. At a place called Senju, I got off the boat, and the thought of the three thousand miles ahead filled my chest. In this phantom city, I shed the tears of parting.

Spring passing— Birds cry, and the eyes of fish Are filled with tears.

I made this the beginning of my writing brush. The road ahead did not let me move forward quickly. The people stood lined up along the path, seeing me off until my retreating figure was no longer in sight, I suppose. It was the second year of Genroku. A long journey through the deep north—I set out on a sudden impulse, though I say I added the sorrow of white hair under the vast sky. Yet what I heard with my ears was not yet seen with my eyes. If I lived to return, I hung uncertain hopes on that thread. That day, I finally trudged to an inn called Sōka.

On my bony shoulders, what hung was only that which caused me suffering. I had set out with nothing but myself. A single paper robe protected me from the night, and I carried a light raincoat, ink and brush, and unavoidable farewell gifts, which I could not bear to throw away. They became the clutter of the roadside—this was pitiful.

I made a pilgrimage to Muro no Yashima. My traveling companion, Sora, said, “This shrine is dedicated to the goddess Konohana-sakuyahime, the same as Fuji. Because she shut herself in a windowless room and gave birth in fire, it is called Muro no Yashima—the Room Island. It is also the reason why people here compose poems about smoke. And the fish called *hata* is forbidden here, as the temple legend tells.”

On the thirtieth day, I lodged at the foot of Nikkō Mountain. The innkeeper said, “My name is Butsu Gozaemon. Because I make honesty my principle, people call me this. So please, relax and rest on your grass pillow for the night.” What kind of Buddha had appeared in this muddy, dusty world to help a mendicant monk like me? I watched what the host did and saw that he was simply ignorant, without discrimination, a man of pure and stubborn honesty. A nature close to the virtue of strong, resolute, and slow-spoken benevolence—the clear quality of his inborn spirit was most worthy of respect.

On the first day of the fourth month, I climbed the mountain to worship. Long ago, this mountain was written as Futara-yama, but when the great master Kūkai founded it, he changed the name to Nikkō, perhaps foreseeing a thousand years. Now its sacred light shines across the whole sky, its grace fills the eight directions, and the land of the people rests in peace. There are too many things to revere, so I put down my brush.

How awesome! On the green leaves, the young leaves, The light of the sun.

Kurokami Mountain was hazy with mist, and the snow was still white.

Shaving off my hair, At Kurokami Mountain I change my robes. —Sora

Sora’s family name was Kawai, and he was once called Sōgorō. He lived next door to me under Bashō’s leaves and helped me with the chores of drawing water and gathering firewood. This time, he took pleasure in sharing the views of Matsushima and Kisakata, and also wanted to relieve the hardships of the journey. At dawn, he shaved his head, changed into black robes, and renamed himself Sōgo from Sōgorō. Hence the poem about Kurokami Mountain. The words “changing robes” strike the ear with strength.

After climbing the mountain for about two miles, I came to a waterfall. It plunged from the top of a rock cave into the blue pool among countless cliffs. I hid myself in the cave and looked out from behind the waterfall. This is said to be called the Backward View Waterfall.

For a while, I am enclosed in a waterfall— The beginning of summer.

I headed for a place called Kurobane in Nasu, where I knew someone. From there, I set off across the fields, intending to take the straight road. I saw a village in the distance and walked toward it, but rain fell and the day darkened. I borrowed a night at a farmer’s house. At dawn, I walked again through the fields. There, a horse was grazing. I spoke to a grass-cutter. Though he was a country man, he was not without feeling. “What are we to do?” he said. “This field is divided in all directions, and the roads crisscross. A traveler might easily lose his way. It would be good for you to give back the horse where it stops.” Two small children ran behind the horse. One was a young girl named Kasane. Her name, so unusual and gentle, made me think it must be the name of a double pink carnation.

Soon we reached the village. I tied payment into the saddle pouch and returned the horse.

I visited the deputy of Kurobane, someone at a temple called Jōbōji. The master’s unexpected joy and our endless talk continued day and night. His younger brother, Tōsui, visited me morning and evening and also took me to his own home. I was invited by his relatives, and as the days passed, I strolled one day into the countryside to see the ruins of the dog-hunting grounds. I pushed through the bamboo grass of Nasu and visited the ancient tomb of Lady Tamamo. From there, I made a pilgrimage to Hachiman Shrine, where Yoshiie once shot the fan target, swearing by our country’s patron god, the true Hachiman. Hearing that this was the very shrine, I felt a deep sense of divine response. So I returned to Tōsui’s house.

There is a temple called Shugen Kōmyōji. I was invited there and paid my respects at the hall of the ascetic.

Summer mountains— I worship the clogs At the start of the journey.

Deep in the province, at Ungan Temple, there is a trace of the mountain retreat of the priest Butchō.

A grass hut, Not even five feet square— If only it did not rain, I would not regret building it.

I heard that he wrote this with charcoal on a rock. I wanted to see the trace, so I turned my staff toward Ungan Temple. People eagerly invited me to go with them, and many young men noisily came along the way. Without realizing it, I reached the foot of the mountain. The mountain looked deep. The valley path stretched far, the pines and cedars were dark, moss dripped with wetness, and the sky of the fourth month still felt cold. I crossed a bridge at the place where the ten views were composed and entered the mountain gate. Then I asked where the hermit’s trace was, and I climbed the rear mountain. There, a small hut was built on a rock, suspended from a cave. It was like seeing the death chamber of the master Myō or the stone room of the monk Hōun.

Woodpeckers Do not break the hut— The summer grove.

I left this hasty verse on the pillar. From there, I went to the Killing Stone. The deputy sent me on horseback. The attending man asked for a short sword. “A gentle request,” I thought.

Turning the horse Across the field— Call the cuckoo.

The Killing Stone lies in the shadow of the mountain where the hot spring rises. The stone’s poison has not yet disappeared. Bees and butterflies pile up until the color of the sand is no longer visible. They die. There is also a willow where clear water flows, left by the roadside in the village of Ashino. The local governor, a man named Tobe, had often mentioned showing me this willow. I had wondered where it might be, but today I stopped in the shade of this very willow.

Planting a single rice field, I take leave of the willow.

With each passing day, my anxiety grew, and when I reached the Shirakawa Barrier, my traveler’s heart settled at last. No wonder the ancients sought ways to send word to the capital. This barrier is one of the three great barriers, and it stops the hearts of poets. The autumn wind still lingered in my ears, the red leaves in my memory, but now the green leaves of the treetops were still sad. The deutzia flowers in pure white, mingling with the wild roses, made me feel as if I were crossing through snow. The ancients adjusted their caps and changed their robes here, as Kiyosuke recorded in his writing.

With deutzia flowers In my hair, I put on— Festival clothes at the barrier. —Sora

And so, as I crossed over, I crossed the Abukuma River. To the left, Aizune rose high; to the right, Iwaki, Sōma, and the village of Miharu. Drawing borders with Hitachi and Shimotsuke, I walked through a place called Kage-numa. The sky was cloudy today, and no shadows were reflected. At the post station of Sukagawa, I sought out a man named Tōkyū, and I was detained for four or five days. First, he asked, “How did you cross the Shirakawa Barrier?” The weariness of the long journey troubled both body and mind. My soul was stolen by the scenery, and my heart was torn by remembrance of the past, so I could not compose my thoughts properly.

The beginning of poetry— The rice-planting songs Of the deep north.

I felt it would be careless to cross without a word, so we talked and composed a sequence of three volumes, starting with *waki* and *daisan*. Near this lodging, there was a monk who had withdrawn from the world under the shade of a great chestnut tree. I thought this mountain refuge must be like that, and I wrote something in passing. The character for chestnut is written as “west tree,” and it is said to connect to the Western Pure Land. The holy man Gyōki used this wood for his staff and walking stick throughout his life.

What the people Do not notice— The flowers of the chestnut by the eaves.

I left Tōkyū’s house and traveled about five miles. I left the village of Hiwada and came to Asaka Mountain, which is close to the road. There are many marshes here. The season for cutting *katsumi* was approaching, so I asked people, “Which plant is the *katsumi*?” But no one knew. I searched the marshes, asking everyone, “*Katsumi! Katsumi!*” and wandered around until the sun touched the mountain ridge. I turned right at Nihonmatsu, saw the cave of Kurozuka, and lodged in Fukushima.

At dawn, I went to seek the stone of Shinobu-moji-zuri and traveled to the village of Shinobu. Far into the mountain shadows, a small village. The stone stood half buried in the earth. A child of the village came and told me, “Long ago, it was on top of this mountain. But travelers spoiled the barley grass by testing the stone, and the people grew angry. They pushed it down into this valley, so the face of the stone lies turned downward.” That was possible.

The hand of the woman Planting rice seedlings— The old pattern of Shinobu-zuri.

I crossed Tsuki no Wa ferry and came to a lodging called Senoue. The remains of Satō Shōji’s house were about a mile and a half to the left in the hills. I heard of the village of Iizuka and the place Sabano, and I searched until I found a hill called Maruyama, where I located traces of the great gate. This was Shōji’s old mansion. I let my tears fall as others told me, and in a nearby old temple, a monument marked the family. Among them, the marker for the two brides was especially moving. Though women, their brave names had spread across the world. The stone monument of tears was not far off. I entered the temple and asked for tea. Here, they kept Yoshitsune’s sword and Benkei’s backpack as treasures.

The backpack and the sword Decorated for the Fifth Month— Paper streamers.

It was the fifth day of the fifth month. That night, I lodged in Iizuka. There was a hot spring, so I bathed and found lodging. The house was poor, with straw mats laid on the dirt floor. There was no lamp, so I made a bed by the firelight and lay down. At night, thunder roared and rain poured. The roof leaked above where I lay, and fleas and mosquitoes bit me, so I could not sleep. My chronic illness also flared up, and I nearly lost consciousness. The short night gradually dawned, and I set off again. The remnant of the night still lingered in my heart. I hired a horse and set out for the post station of Kōri.

I carried a distant road ahead, and my illness made it uncertain. But a wandering journey to the borderlands is a matter of abandoning the body. With the thought that death on the road is heavenly fate, I mustered a little spirit, crossed the roads in all directions, and passed through the great gate of Date. I passed Suruga-suri and Shiraishi Castle. When I entered the district of Kasashima, I asked where the burial mound of General Minamoto no Sanekata was. People said, “That village far to the right in the mountain shadow is Minowa Kasashima. There is the shrine of the travel god, and the *susuki* grass remains as a keepsake.”

On this rainy season, The road is very bad And I am tired of body.

So I just looked from a distance and passed by. “Minowa Kasashima, too, meets the rainy season.”

Kasashima— Where is it? The muddy roads of the fifth month.

I lodged at Iwanuma. The pine of Takekuma refreshed my eyes as if I were waking from a dream. The roots split into two trunks from the ground, showing no loss of their ancient form. First, I thought of the priest Nōin, who once traveled down as governor of Mutsu and had this pine cut down to make bridge piles over the Natori River. Because of that, he wrote, “This time, no trace of the pine remains.” I heard that in later ages, some cut it down and others replanted it. Now it had preserved its form for a thousand years, a splendid and admirable sight.

The pine of Takekuma— I would like to tell you, “The cherry blossoms are late.” —Kyohaku

I replied with a *senbechi*, so I said:

More than the cherry blossoms, The pine has two trunks— Crossing in the third month.

I crossed the Natori River and entered Sendai. It was the day of the iris festival. I sought lodging and stayed for four or five days. Here, there was a painter named Ka’emon. I heard he had some taste, so I made his acquaintance. He said he had studied the uncertain old names and sites, so he guided me for a day. The bush clover of Miyagino grew thick, and I could imagine the autumn scenery. Tamada and the azalea hill of Yokono were in bloom. I entered a pine forest where the sunlight did not penetrate. This was called “Under the Trees.” Long ago, someone wrote, “Because the dew is deep, I carry my extra hat.” I visited the Yakushi Hall and the shrine of Tenjin, and the day ended.

He painted pictures of Matsushima and Shiogama and gave them to me, along with a pair of straw sandals dyed in indigo and tied with cords. So, the wanderer arrived here, revealing his true nature.

Iris leaves— I will tie them to my feet In place of sandal cords.

Following his drawings, I made my way along the narrow road to the deep north. At the foot of the mountain, there was a kind of *tofu* grass. Every year, they make ten *suge* mats and present them to the provincial lord.

The Stone Monument. In Ichikawa Village, at Tagajō. The stone monument stands over six feet high and about three feet wide. Moss was carved away, and the characters were faint. It marked the boundaries of the four directions and recorded the distances. The castle was built in the first year of Jingi by the inspector and general Ōno no Azumabito. Then, in the sixth year of Tenpyō-hōji, the counselor and commander of the Eastern Seas and Eastern Mountains, along with the general Abe no Ason, repaired it. The inscription ended with “the first day of the twelfth month,” during the reign of Emperor Shōmu. Many old pillow-poems and songs have been handed down, but mountains collapse, rivers change course, roads are altered, stones are buried and hidden in the earth, trees grow old and are replaced by young ones. Time passes, generations change, and only uncertain traces remain.

But here, before my eyes, was a record of a thousand years beyond doubt, and I felt the hearts of the ancients. The virtue of pilgrimage, the joy of being alive, and the weariness of travel were all forgotten, and I nearly wept.

From there, I searched for the Tamagawa of Noda and the Stone of Oki. The Pine of Sue no Matsuyama was now a temple, called the Pine of the Last Mountain. The many branches, crossing wings and linking arms, all ended in a graveyard. The vows of lovers who exchanged wings and intertwined branches come to this in the end, I thought, with deepened sadness. In the bay of Shiogama, I heard the evening bell.

The sky of the rainy season Cleared a little— The moon at dusk faintly lights the bay.

Magaki Island was nearby. Fishing boats rowed together, and voices divided the catch. The poet who wrote “sadly” must have felt this way—deeply moving. That night, a blind minstrel played the lute and chanted the *o-jo-ri*, a kind of tale. It was not the Tale of the Heike nor a dance, but a rustic tune raised near my pillow. It was noisy, but it still held the old music of the borderlands, and I found it admirable.

At dawn, I made a pilgrimage to the Shiogama Myōjin Shrine. The provincial lord had restored it, and the pillars were newly built, the painted rafters bright, and the stone steps rose in nine layers. The morning sun shone on the vermilion fence. That the spirit of the god reigns freshly even in such a remote and dusty place—this is worthy of reverence, the custom of our land.

Before the shrine stood a treasure pagoda. The face of the bronze doors bore an inscription from the third year of Bunji, donated by Izumi no Saburō. The image of five hundred years floated before my eyes, and I found it strange and rare. He was a man of courage, duty, loyalty, and filial piety. Good fortune never fails to follow. Truly, a person should strive for the Way and uphold righteousness. Fame, too, follows such a person.

The day was already near noon. I hired a boat and crossed to Matsushima, a distance of over two miles. We landed on the shore of Oshima. Though it is old to speak of it, Matsushima is the finest landscape in Japan, rivaling Dongting and Xihu. The sea enters from the southeast, the river is three miles wide, and it holds the tide of Zhejiang. The countless islands: those that point to heaven, those that lie prone on the waves, some stacked in double layers, some folded in triple layers—some to the left, some to the right. Some carry others on their backs, some embrace them, as if cherishing children. The green of the pines is deep, their branches bent by the sea wind, naturally twisted like crafts. The scene is serene, like the face of a beautiful woman adorned. Was this the work of the ancient god of Mount Ōyama? The divine hand of creation—what person could wield a brush and exhaust words?

Oshima is an island attached to the land. There are traces of the retreat of the priest Unkei, and the stone where he sat in meditation. On the pine-shaded shore, I saw a few recluses in the world, quietly living in grass huts. Who could they be? I passed by, full of emotion. Then the moon came out over the sea, and the daytime view changed anew. I returned to the shore and sought lodging. The room had an open window and a second story. Sleeping in a traveler’s bed amidst wind and cloud felt strangely wonderful.

Matsushima— Dew clings to the body, And the cuckoo calls. —Sora

I closed my lips and tried to sleep, but could not. When I left my old hut, Sōdō had given me a poem about Matsushima, and An’an had sent a waka about Matsushima. I opened the bag and took them out as company for the night. Also, Sugimori and his disciple had sent haiku.

On the eleventh day, I visited the temple of Endai. This temple had thirty-two generations. In the past, Makabe no Heishirō became a monk, went to Tang, and founded it upon his return. Through the virtue of the priest Unkei, the seven halls were rebuilt, gold and colored ornamentation shone, and it became a great temple for the achievement of the Buddha land. I wondered where the temple of viewing the Buddha was.

On the twelfth day, with my heart set on Hiraizumi, we heard of the pine of Aneha and the bridge of Odeha. The path was rarely traveled, and only pheasants, rabbits, and woodcutters passed. I could not tell the road, and finally lost my way, arriving at a harbor called Ishinomaki. People say that “a golden flower blooms here,” and the Gold Flower Mountain stretched before my eyes over the sea. Hundreds of ships gathered in the inlet. The houses crowded together, and smoke rose from the cooking stoves. I did not expect to come to such a place. I tried to find lodging, but no one would take me in. At last, I found a small, shabby house and spent the night. When dawn came, I again wandered the unknown road. Passing through Sode no Watari, the pasture of Obuchi, the fields of Mano—I saw them from a distance. I walked along a long dike by a lonely marsh and spent a night at a place called Toima. Then I reached Hiraizumi.

The distance was about twenty miles.

The glory of three generations faded in a single sleep. The site of the Great Gate lies over a mile away. Hidehira’s palace has become a field. Only the Golden Pavilion Mountain retains its shape. First, I climbed the high stand. The Kitakami River is a great stream flowing from the south. The River Koromo winds around the castle of Izumi and joins the great river below the Tōkan Palace. The old site of Yasuhira was beyond the Koromo Barrier, guarding the southern entrance to block the barbarians. But most of all, Yoshitsune took refuge in this castle, and his fame became a grassy mound in a moment. The country is destroyed, but the mountains and rivers remain; the castle is in spring, and the grass is green. I spread my sitting mat and wept for a long time, letting the time pass.

Summer grass— The traces of the warriors’ Dreams.

Deutzia flowers— And the white hair Of Kanefusa. —Sora

The two halls I had long heard of were opened. The sutra hall held the statues of the three generals. The Hall of Light held the coffins of the three generations and enshrined the three Buddhas. The seven jewels had scattered and disappeared, the jeweled doors were broken by the wind, the golden pillars were rotted by frost and dew, and the hall was already on the verge of ruin and emptiness. But they had newly enclosed the four sides, covering the tiles to shelter it from wind and rain, to preserve it as a moment’s reminder for a thousand years.

The rainy season— Scattering, it leaves untouched The Hall of Light.

I looked far into the southern road and lodged in the village of Iwate. Passing by Kurozaki and Mitsu no Kojima, through the hot spring of Narugo, I approached the barrier of Uzen, intending to cross into the province of Dewa. This road is rarely traveled by pilgrims, so the barrier guard eyed me suspiciously. I barely managed to cross. I climbed a great mountain, and since the day was already ending, I found a gatekeeper’s house and asked for lodgings. For three days, wind and rain raged, and I was stalled in this useless mountain.

Fleas and lice, And a horse pissing Near my pillow.

The host said, “From here, a great mountain separates us from Dewa Province. The road is uncertain. You should hire a guide to cross.” So I did. We hired a stout young man, who carried a short sword at his side and a staff of oak. He went ahead, and we followed. I thought, “Today I will meet a truly perilous day.” I trudged with a heavy heart. As the host had said, the high mountains were dense, not a single bird cried, the shade under the trees was dark, and it felt like walking at night. The earth seemed to fall from the clouds. We pushed through the bamboo grass, crossed streams, stepped on rocks, and sweated cold sweat on our skin. At last, we came out into the village of Mogami. The man who had guided us said, “This road is always treacherous. I am glad to have safely escorted you.” He parted with joy. When I heard this later, I could only feel a deep gratitude.

In Obanazawa, I sought out a man named Seifū. He was wealthy, but his mind was not base. He had traveled to the capital many times, so he understood a traveler’s heart. He kept me for many days, treating me with every care on the long road.

The coolness— I make it my lodging And sleep.

Crawl out, Come out, Cricket under the taro leaves.

Like an eyebrow brush, The safflower blossoms.

The silkworm keepers Look like people Of old. —Sora

In Yamagata province, there is a mountain temple called Risshaku-ji, founded by the great master Jikaku. It is a place of special peace and simplicity. People urged me to see it, so I turned back from Obanazawa. The distance was about seven miles. The day had not yet darkened when I found lodging at a house at the foot of the mountain. I set out and climbed to the temple on the peak. The rocks were piled up and the mountain was covered with old pines and cypresses. The earth and stones were aged, and the moss was smooth. The temple buildings on the cliffs had their doors closed, and no sound was heard. I circled the cliffs, crawled over the rocks, and worshipped at the Buddha hall. The cold scenery was still, and it felt as if my heart was being cleansed.

Such stillness— The cicadas’ voices Sink into the rocks.

I wanted to descend the Mogami River. I waited for good weather at a place called Ōishida. Here, the old seeds of haiku had fallen and were not forgotten, recalling the cherry blossoms of the past. I tried to soften the feeling of a single note from a reed flute, feeling my way along this path, stumbling between the new and the old. But there was no guide, so I left a single volume, rough and unfinished. My wandering spirit had reached this point.

The Mogami River rises in Michinoku and has its source in Yamagata. It contains dangerous rapids called Kode and Hayabusa. It flows north of Itajiki Mountain and finally enters the sea at Sakata. On both sides, the mountains are covered with thick foliage. I floated a boat down the river. They call the boats *oine-zune*. The White Thread Falls fell through gaps in the green leaves. The Hermit Hall stood on the bank, the water was rising, and the boat was in danger.

Gathering the rains Of the rainy season— The swift Mogami River.

On the third day of the sixth month, I climbed Mount Haguro. I sought a man named Saji Yoshikichi and was introduced to the abbot, the vice-priest Kakuju. I was given lodging in a separate temple in the southern valley, and he treated me with kind and detailed hospitality.

How grateful— The snow-scented air In the southern valley.

On the fourth day, a haiku gathering was held at the main temple. On the fifth day, I visited the shrine. The founding of this mountain came from the great master Nōjo, though I do not know from which generation. In the Engi-shiki, it is called “Hane-shu-sato-yama” and written with the character for “black” in the word “shu-sato.” Perhaps “Hane-shu-sato-yama” was abbreviated to “Haguro-yama.” As for the name “Dewa,” it is said in the Fudoki that bird feathers were offered to the court. Together with Mount Gassan and Mount Yudono, it is called the Three Mountains. This temple once belonged to the eastern branch of Tōeizan, and the clear moon of the Tendai teachings shone brightly, while the lamp of perfect and harmonious dharma burned. The monks’ quarters lined up like rafters, and they practiced the way of asceticism. The sacred mountain and its sacred land bring both reverence and awe, and I can truly call it a splendid mountain.

On the eighth day, I climbed Mount Gassan. I wore a paper cord around my body, wrapped my head in a jeweled crown, and was led by a man of strength, called *gōriki*. Through mist and mountain vapor, trampling ice and snow, I climbed eight miles. It seemed as if I had entered the cloud barrier of the sun and moon. I was breathless, frozen to the bone. When I reached the summit, the sun had set and the moon appeared. I spread bamboo grass, made a pillow of the bush, and lay down to wait for dawn. When the sun rose and the clouds cleared, I came down to the hot spring.

In the valley lodge, there is a place called the Forge. The blacksmith of this province chose sacred water, purified himself, and forged a sword. He engraved it with the name “Gassan,” and it was praised by the world. He tempered his sword in that dragon spring, some say. The deep devotion of those who pursue the way of artisans, following the tradition of Kan’ja and Moya, was not to be taken lightly.

I sat on a rock to rest while a cherry tree, about three feet tall, had buds half opened, buried under the snow of the piled-up drifts, not forgetting the spring.

The heart of a late cherry blossom Is unaffected— It blooms in the heat of summer.

I remembered the poem of the high priest Gyōson and found it even more fitting. All the details of the practices in this mountain are forbidden to speak of, as they are the secret rites of the ascetics. So I put down my brush and do not record them.

When I returned to the lodge, at the request of the abbot, I wrote the verses of pilgrimage to the three mountains on slips of paper.

Coolness— The faint light of the moon On Mount Haguro.

The clouds’ peaks, How many have crumbled— The moon on the mountain.

I cannot speak— At Yudono, my sleeves Are wet. —Sora

Treading the money On the path to Yudono— Tears. —Sora

I left Haguro and went to the castle town of Tsurugaoka, where a man named Nagayama Shigeyuki welcomed me. We had a haiku gathering. Yoshikichi also accompanied me. I took a river boat down to the port of Sakata. I stayed at the home of a doctor named Fu’an Fugyoku.

Azumi Mountain— Kicking off toward Yuri Beach, A cool evening.

The hot sun Sets into the sea— The Mogami River.

The landscape of the river and sea was beyond description. Now my mind was drawn to Kisakata. From the port of Sakata, I crossed over mountains to the northeast, followed the coast, and walked on sand for ten miles. As the sun began to slant, the sea wind blew up the sand, and the air became hazy. Mount Chōkai was hidden in the gloom. I could not go on. But the rain, too, would be a rarity—and after the rain, the clear weather would be welcome. I crawled into a fisherman’s hut to wait for the rain to clear.

The next morning, the sky cleared well, and the morning sun rose brightly. I launched a boat into the shore of Kisakata. First, I brought the boat to Nōin Island to visit the traces of his three years of seclusion. I brought the boat to the opposite shore. The poet wrote, “On the flowers, I row.” The old cherry tree, which was a keepsake from the priest Saigyō, still remained. On the shore, there was an imperial tomb. It is said to be the tomb of Empress Jingū. The temple is called Kanmanju-ji. I have never heard of her visiting this place. What could this mean?

I sat in the main hall of this temple and rolled up the blind. The landscape spread out in a single glance. To the south, Mount Chōkai held up the sky, its shadow reflected in the bay. To the west, the road of Muya-muya marked the border. To the east, a dike was built, and the road to Akita stretched in the distance. To the north, the sea opened up, and the place where the waves enter is called Shiogoshi. The bay is about a mile wide each way. Its appearance resembles Matsushima, yet it is different. Matsushima seems to smile, while Kisakata seems to sulk. It adds sadness to loneliness and disturbs the spirit, like a sickness.

Kisakata— Rain falls on the laughing flower Of Sei’s beauty.

Shiogoshi— A crane wets its legs In the cool sea.

Kisakata— What to eat for the festival, O gods. —Sora

A fisherman’s house— Laying down the door planks, Cool evening. —A merchant of Mino

On the rocks, I saw the nest of a cormorant.

Not forgetting The crossing of the waves— The nest of a cormorant. —Sora

The lingering days at Sakata piled up, and I longed for the clouds of the Hokuriku Road. The distant journey weighed on my heart. I heard that it was a hundred and thirty miles to the castle town of Kaga. I crossed the Barrier of Nezu and entered Echigo Province. I changed to walking in Etchū Province and came to the Barrier of Ichinofuri. For nine days, I suffered from the heat and dampness, which troubled my spirit, and I fell ill. I wrote nothing.

The seventh month— Even the sixth is not Like an ordinary night.

The rough sea— Spanning toward Sado, The Milky Way.

Today, I passed through the difficult places of the northern provinces—Oyashirazu, Kozoshirazu, Inu-tori, and Koma-gaeshi—and was exhausted. I pulled my pillow close and tried to sleep. From a room to the west, separated by one partition, I heard the voices of two young women and an older man. They were talking. I listened. They were courtesans from a place called Niigata in Echigo Province, on their way to the Ise Shrine. The man had escorted them this far, and tomorrow he would send them home. They wrote letters and gave brief messages.

Casting their bodies On the shore of the white waves— The shallow world Of these women,

Brought low in this life, With uncertain vows, And shameful karma.

I listened, and then I fell asleep. In the morning, as we set off, the women spoke to us: “We do not know where you are going, but we are sad and uncertain. Please let us follow you, even if only in our thoughts. Have pity on us, and grant us the grace of great compassion, so that we may form a karmic bond with you.” Tears fell. It was pitiful. But I replied, “We stop in many places. We only go where people go. The protection of the gods will surely be with you.” I said this and left. My sadness did not fade for some time.

In one house, Courtesans also sleep— Bush clover and the moon.

I told this to Sora, and he recorded it.

I crossed what they call the forty-eight rapids of Kurobe, and then I came to a shore called Nago. I asked about the wisteria of the carrying baskets—even if it is not spring, it is worthy of autumn’s sadness. They told me I would have to follow the coast for about five miles, then go into the mountain shadows on the opposite shore. The thatched roofs of the fishermen were hidden, and I might not find anyone to lodge with for a night among the reeds. So I was warned, and I entered the province of Kaga.

The scent of early rice— I part the grass and go in, The path ahead.

I crossed the mountain of Unohana through the valley of Kurikara, and I arrived in Kanazawa on the fifth day of the seventh month. Here, there was a merchant traveling from Osaka, named Doko. We shared lodging. There was a man named Isshō, who was known to be a lover of this art. People had been waiting for him. But he had died suddenly the previous winter, and his elder brother held a memorial service for him.

Move, grave— My crying voice Is the autumn wind.

I was invited to a grass hut.

Autumn cool— Each hand peels The melon and eggplant. —On the road

Bright, bright, The sun is cold— The autumn wind.

At a place called Komatsu:

What a fitting name— Komatsu, With bush clover and eulalia.

I visited the shrine of Ōta. There was a helmet and armor with brocade, once given by Lord Yoshitomo when he was allied with the Genji. It was not a thing of the Heike. From the visor to the turn-back, it was carved with chrysanthemum and arabesque patterns, inlaid with gold. The dragon’s head held the crest. After Sadamori died in battle, Kiso Yoshinaka enclosed it with a prayer and placed it in this shrine. I saw it clearly in the temple records, along with the story of Hichirō no Jirō’s mission.

How pitiful— Under the helmet, A cricket.

I walked toward Yamanaka. Mount Shirasune was visible behind. I walked past a Kannon hall on the left. When the retired emperor Hanayama completed his thirty-three pilgrimage temples, he enshrined an image of the Great Compassionate One here and named it Nata. It is said he divided the name “Nachi-dani” into two characters. Strange rocks of every kind, old pines lined up, and a small chapel built on a rock—it was a most special and sacred place.

From the rock mountain, More than the rocks, The autumn wind.

I bathed in the hot spring. Its effect is said to be next to that of Arima.

In Yamanaka— No chrysanthemums to pick, Only the scent of the hot spring.

My host was a young boy called Kumenosuke. He said he loved haiku. When Teishitsu was young and came here, he was mocked in his poetic art. He returned to the capital, became a disciple of the old master Teitoku, and gained fame. After that, he refused to take any payment for judging poems from this village. Now this has become an old story.

Sora suffered from stomach pain and went ahead to Nagashima in Ise Province.

Go on, go on— Even if you fall and lie down, The field of bush clover. —Sora

He left this behind. The one who goes feels sorrow; the one who remains feels regret, like a wild duck separated and wandering in the clouds.

From today, I will write it down— The dew on my hat.

I lodged at a temple called Daishō-ji, outside the castle of the great saint. This is still in Kaga. Sora had stayed at this temple the night before and left a verse.

All night long, I listen to the autumn wind— The mountain at Ura.

The separation of a single night is like a thousand miles. I, too, listened to the autumn wind and lay in the common room. When the dawn sky drew near, the clear voice of the sutra reading began, followed by the bell and the wooden gong that called us to the dining hall.

Today I was headed for Echizen Province, so I hurried down from the temple hall. Young monks came after me, carrying paper and ink, even chasing me to the foot of the steps. At that moment, a willow in the garden let fall its leaves.

Sweep the garden, Go out— The willow scatters at the temple.

I hurried away, half-composing. I rode the boat into the inlet of Yoshizaki on the border of Echizen and sought the pine of Shiogoshi.

All night long, The storm brings the waves, And the moon clears— The pine of Shiogoshi.

This single verse captured the whole scene. To add any further comment would be like adding an unnecessary finger.

I visited the abbot of Tenryū-ji in Maruoka, an old acquaintance. It seems a man named Hokushi from Kanazawa had followed me here, having met me only in passing. He did not miss a single scene along the way, continuously composing verses of deep feeling. Now, as we parted,

Writing something, I break the fan— The memory of our parting.

I entered the mountains for about a mile and visited the temple of Eihei-ji, the temple of the great master Dōgen. It is said that he fled from the troubles of the world and left his traces in this mountain valley, which has a noble reason.

Fukui was about three miles away, so I prepared my evening meal and set out. The twilight road was hard to follow. There was an old hermit named Tōsai. How many years ago had he come to Edo and visited me? It must have been ten years or more. How had he aged? Or had he died? I asked after him and heard that he was still alive, somewhere or other. I quietly entered the town and found his small, hidden hut, with moonflowers and loofah vines growing over it, and the door hidden by cockscomb and broom. “This must be the place,” I thought, and knocked. A woman with a shabby look came out. ” she said. “Are you a monk on pilgrimage? The master is not here. He has gone to so-and-so. If you need him, please look for him.” I realized she must be his wife. This is just like the old tales, I thought to myself, and I soon found him. I stayed at his house for two nights. For the full moon, I planned to travel to the port of Tsuruga.

Tōsai wanted to see me off, so he lifted his skirts and went with me as my guide along the path.

Mount Shirasune hid itself, And Hina Island appeared.

I crossed the bridge of Asamutsu. The reeds of Tamae had already put out their ears. I passed the barrier of Uguisu, crossed the pass of Yuno, and saw the castle of Hikaru and Mount Kaeru. Then, seeking the early geese, I arrived at the port of Tsuruga on the evening of the fourteenth.

That night, the moon was clear. I asked if the next night would be as bright. My host said, “In these northern provinces, it is hard to predict.” He offered me sake, and I made a night visit to the shrine of Kehi no Myōjin. It is the shrine of Emperor Chūai. The shrine grounds were sacred. The moonlight came through the pine trees, and the white sand before the shrine was like a layer of frost. Long ago, the wandering holy man of the second order made a great vow. He himself cut grass, carried earth and stones, dried the mud, and made the approach for pilgrims free of trouble. The old custom still continues: people carry sand before the shrine. They call it the “sand-carrying of the wanderer,” as the host told me.

The moon is clear— On the sand carried By the wanderer.

On the fifteenth day, as the host had said, it rained.

Full moon— The weather in the north Is uncertain.

On the sixteenth day, the sky cleared. I wanted to gather the small *masuho* shells, so I raced a boat to the shore of Tane. The distance over the sea was about seven miles. A man named Amaya had prepared small baskets and bamboo tubes, adding many servants to the boat. The wind caught us, and in no time we were blown to the shore. The shore held only a small, shabby fisherman’s hut and a poor temple called Hokke-ji. Here, I drank tea, warmed sake, and could not bear the melancholy of the evening gloom.

Such loneliness— Surpassing Suma, The autumn at the shore.

Among the waves— The small shells scatter With the dust of bush clover.

That day, I had Tōsai write a verse and left it at the temple. Road-tō had also come to meet me at this port. He was accompanying me back to the province of Mino. With the help of a horse, I entered the village of Ōgaki. Sora had come from Ise to meet me. Etsujin also came on horseback, and we gathered at the house of Nyogyō. Zenkawa, Keikō and his son, and other friends came to greet me. It was like meeting a man brought back from the dead. We rejoiced together and shared our grief. My travel weariness had not yet subsided, but on the sixth day of the ninth month, I wanted to worship at the transfer of the Ise Shrine, so I boarded a boat again.

The clamshell As a farewell— The departing autumn.

It is said that noble fame follows those who truly follow the Way and uphold righteousness. The day was already near noon when I hired a boat and crossed to Matsushima. The distance was a little over two miles, and we landed on the shore of Ojima. Though I speak of things long past, Matsushima is the most beautiful scenery in all of Japan, rivaling even Lake Dongting and West Lake in China. The sea enters from the southeast, filling a bay three miles wide, like the Qiantang River tide. The countless islands rise steeply, some pointing to heaven, others crawling upon the waves. Some are doubled, some piled three deep, branching left and joining right. Some seem to carry others on their backs, some embrace them, as if cherishing their children. The pine trees are a deep green, their branches and leaves bent by the salt wind, twisted as if by nature's own hand. The landscape is serene and lovely, like the face of a beautiful woman.

Was this the work of the gods of old, the great deity of creation? What artist could paint it, what poet could capture it in words?

The shore of Ojima is a promontory jutting into the sea. There remain the traces of the hermitage of the Zen master Ungo, and stones where he sat in meditation. Here and there among the pines, I saw people who had renounced the world. They lived quietly in thatched huts, gathering fallen rice ears and pine cones. Who they were I could not learn, but as I drew near, filled with nostalgia, the moon reflected on the sea, and the daytime scenery transformed completely. Returning to the shore, I sought lodging and found a room with a window on the second floor. Sleeping among the wind and clouds was a strangely wonderful experience.

Matsushima— dewdrops on my body, a cuckoo calls.

Sora composed this. I tried to close my eyes and sleep, but could not. When I left my old home, Sodo gave me a poem about Matsushima, and Hara Anteki gave me a waka on the pine-covered isles. I opened the bag and made them my companions for the night. And there were also hokku poems by Sanpu and Shiyu.

On the eleventh day, I visited the temple Zuiganji. Thirty-two generations ago, Makabe no Heishiro left the world, went to China, and after returning, founded this temple. Under the virtuous influence of the Zen master Ungo, the seven halls were rebuilt, splendid with gold and jewels, shining brightly, becoming a great monastery of the Pure Land. I yearned to see the temple of the Buddha he had seen.

On the twelfth day, I set my heart toward Hiraizumi. I had heard of the Aneha Pine and the Thread Bridge. The path was rarely traveled by men, frequented only by pheasants, hares, and woodcutters. I could not tell the way at all and finally lost it, arriving at a harbor called Ishinomaki. There was a mountain called Kinkazan, said in a poem to be where gold flowers bloom. I saw it far out at sea. Hundreds of ships gathered in the inlet, houses crowded along the shore, and smoke rose from their hearths. I never expected to come to such a place and tried to find lodging, but no one would take me in. At last I spent the night in a cramped little house. When morning came, I wandered again along unknown roads, passing Sodenohara, Obuchi no Maki, and Mano no Kayahara, seeing them only from afar. I walked along a distant dike beside a lonely, melancholy long marsh, and stayed one night at a place called Toima, before reaching Hiraizumi.

The distance seemed more than twenty miles.

The glory of three generations vanished in a single dream. The Great Gate stood a mile away. The site of Hidehira's mansion had become a rice field. Only Golden Cock Mountain kept its shape. First I climbed Takadachi. The Kitakami River is a great stream flowing from the north. The Koromo River winds around the castle of Izumi and joins the great river below Takadachi. The old sites of Yasuhira and his men lay at Koromo no Seki, guarding the southern approach. They had blocked the enemy here. Indeed, faithful retainers shut themselves in this castle, and their fame became a patch of grass for a single hour. “The country is ruined, but the mountains and rivers remain; spring comes to the castle, and the grass is green again.” I spread my sitting mat and wept, letting the tears fall until time passed.

Summer grasses— the dreams of warriors are all that remain.

In the u no hana blossoms, Ken no Kaneura appears— white hair.

So Sora wrote. The two temples I had long heard about were opened for worship. The Sutra Hall held statues of the three generals, and the Hikarido contained the coffins of the three generations, with three Buddha statues enshrined. The seven treasures were scattered, the jeweled doors broken by the wind, the golden pillars rotted by dew and frost. Already they were falling into ruin and emptiness, about to become a wilderness, yet the four walls had been newly enclosed with a roof to shelter them from wind and rain, making them a monument for a thousand years.

The early summer rains— spared by the rain, the Hall of Light.

I looked far off toward the road to the north, the land of Nambu, and lodged that night at Iwate no Sato. I passed by Kozaki, Mitsu no Ojima, and then from Narugo Hot Springs, I approached the barrier of Shitomae, intending to cross into Dewa Province. This road was rarely traveled, so the barrier guard eyed me suspiciously, and I barely managed to pass. I climbed a great mountain, and since the day was already dark, I spotted a border guard's house and asked for lodging. For three days, wind and rain raged, and I was confined to that uncomfortable mountain dwelling.

Fleas and lice, and a horse pissing by my pillow.

The host said, “From here, the great mountain separates this land from Dewa, and the path is uncertain. You should hire a guide to cross.” So I hired a man. A stalwart young fellow with a short sword at his side and a staff of oak in his hand walked ahead of us, saying, “Today we must be prepared for danger.” With anxious thoughts, I followed behind. As the host had said, the high mountains were dense and silent—not a single bird's song. The undergrowth was thick and dark, as if we walked by night. It felt as if earth were falling from the clouds. We pushed through bamboo grass, crossed streams, clambered over rocks, and sweat cold on our skin, until at last we emerged at Mogami no Sho. The guide said with joy, “This road is full of hazards, but I have brought you safely here—good fortune indeed!” And he left me. Later, when I heard others speak of it, I felt only a deep unease.

At Obanazawa, I inquired for a man named Seifu. He was a wealthy man, but not vulgar in spirit. He had traveled to the capital many times and understood the feelings of a traveler. He kept me for several days and treated me with every kindness for the long road ahead.

Coolness— I make your house my lodging and doze away.

Come out, you frog, from under the cucumber leaves— hear your own voice!

With her painted eyebrows I compare the safflower.

Those who raise silkworms still wear the costumes of ancient times.

So Sora wrote.

In Yamagata territory, there is a mountain temple called Risshakuji, founded by the great teacher Jikaku. It is a place of exceptional purity. People urged me to see it, so I turned back from Obanazawa and went there, a distance of about seven miles. The day was not yet over, so I rented a room in a temple at the foot of the mountain and then climbed to the hall on the peak. The mountain was made of piled rocks and crags; the pines and cedars were aged, the earth and stones were old and covered with smooth moss. The halls on the rocks had their doors closed, and no sound was heard. I walked along the cliffs, crawling over the rocks, and worshipped at the Buddhist halls. The beautiful scenery was so still and quiet that it felt as if my mind were being purified.

Such stillness— the voices of the cicadas sink into the rocks.

I wanted to go down the Mogami River, so I waited for good weather at a place called Oishida. Here, the seeds of old haikai had fallen, and I did not forget the flowers of the past. I softened my heart at the sound of a single reed horn and felt my way along this path, wavering between the new and old schools, but since there were no guides, I left behind one imperfect volume. The refinement of this journey had reached this point.

The Mogami River rises in Michinoku and flows through Yamagata. It has dangerous rapids called Koden and Hayabusa, passes north of Itajiki Mountain, and finally empties into the sea at Sakata. I launched a boat among the thick forests on both banks. What are called yaina-boats are loaded with rice here. The White Thread Falls fell through gaps in the green leaves. The Hermit Hall stood on the bank, and the river swelled, making the boat unsteady.

Gathering the early summer rains, the Mogami River rushes swift and cool.

On the third day of the sixth month, I climbed Mount Haguro. I sought out a man called Fuji Sakichi and paid a visit to the acting head priest, Kaku Ajari. He gave me lodging in a hermitage in the South Valley and treated me with a most kind and attentive hospitality.

How grateful I am— the South Valley wears snow.

On the fourth day, a haikai gathering was held at the main temple. On the fifth day, I paid my respects at the shrine of Gongen. I do not know from which generation the founder of this mountain, Nojo Daishi, came. In the Engishiki, it is written as the shrine of Hachisu no Satoyama. Perhaps the character for “black” was mistakenly written for “village,” or maybe “Hachisu no Satoyama” was shortened to “Haguro.” As for the name “Dewa,” I have heard in the Fudoki that the feathers of birds were offered as tribute from this province. The three mountains—Gassan and Yudono together with Haguro—form the sacred triad. This temple belongs to the eastern branch of Tendai in Edo, and the moon of Tendai shikan meditation is bright; the lamp of the perfect, sudden dharma is kindled and carried on. The monks' quarters stand in a row, and the practitioners of Shugendo labor at their austerities.

The spiritual power of this sacred mountain is revered and feared, and I would call it a long-flourishing, truly wonderful mountain.

On the eighth day, I climbed Mount Gassan. I tied a paper cord around my body, wrapped my head in a sacred crown, and followed a guide called a “strongman.” We walked through clouds and mist, treading on ice and snow, for eight miles. I wondered if we had entered the Cloud Barrier of the sun and moon road. My breath stopped, my body froze, and when I reached the summit, the sun had set and the moon appeared. I laid down bamboo grass, used a bamboo stalk for a pillow, and waited for dawn. When the sun rose and the clouds cleared, I descended to Yudono. In a valley temple, there was something called the Blacksmith's Hut. The smiths of this province choose pure water, purify themselves, and forge swords. At last they carve the name “Gassan” upon the blade, and these swords are prized throughout the world. They temper the sword in the Dragon's Well—these things I heard.

The deep attachment of these men to the ancient way of Ganjiang and Moye is evident.

I sat down on a rock to rest. There was a cherry tree, its buds about three feet high, half opened, buried under the fallen snow but never forgetting spring. This late cherry blossom's heart is truly something—like plum blossoms in the heat of summer. I remembered the poem of the Bishop Gyozon and felt it even more deeply here. All the secret practices of this mountain are forbidden to speak of to outsiders, so I set down my brush and did not write of them. When I returned to the temple, at the request of the Ajari, I wrote verses on a slip of paper about the pilgrimage to the three mountains.

How cool— the moon just faintly seen over Mount Haguro.

How many ridges of cloud have crumbled away— the moon on the mountains.

I dare not speak of it— at Yudono, my sleeves are wet.

At Yudono Mountain, I walk the path of coins, and tears fall.

So Sora wrote.

I left Haguro and went to the castle town of Tsuruoka. I was received at the house of a man called Nagayama Shigeyuki, and held a haikai gathering of one volume. Sakichi saw me off as well. I took a riverboat down to the port of Sakata and lodged at the home of a physician named Fuan no Fuji.

Evening cool— the Azumi Mountains stretching toward Tomiura.

The blazing sun has set into the sea— the Mogami River.

I had exhausted the beauty of mountains and rivers, then my mind turned to Kisakata. From the port of Sakata, I went northeast, crossing mountains, following the coast, walking on sand, for about ten miles. As the sun began to slant, a salt wind blew up sand, blurring everything, and Mount Chokai disappeared into the darkness. Let it rain—and if it does, the clearing after will be just as welcome. I took shelter in a fisherman's hut and waited for the rain to stop.

In the morning, the sky cleared beautifully. As the sun rose bright and brilliant, I launched a boat onto the waters of Kisakata. First I stopped at Noin Island and visited the site where the poet Noin had lived in seclusion for three years. When I pulled the boat ashore on the opposite bank, there was an old cherry tree—the very one about which it was said, “I row upon the flowers,” a relic left by the priest Saigyo. On the shore was an imperial tomb, said to be the grave of Empress Jingu. The temple here was called Kanmanju Temple. I had never heard of an imperial visit to this place—what could it mean?

I sat in the abbot's quarters of this temple and rolled up the blinds. The whole landscape lay before my eyes. To the south, Mount Chokai supported the sky, its shadow reflected in the inlet. To the west was the winding Barrier Road; to the east, a dike had been built, and the road to Akita stretched far away. The inlet was about a mile across. The scene reminded me of Matsushima, yet it was different. Matsushima seems to smile, while Kisakata seems to grieve. A sense of stillness mixed with sorrow, as if the very landscape oppressed the soul.

Kisakata— the west beauty Shi Shi in the rain, with a kerria flower.

The tide flows out— the crane's legs are wet, the sea is cool.

At Kisakata— what shall I eat? The god’s festival.

So Sora wrote.

Fishermen’s houses— I lay out floorboards for the evening cool.

So wrote the merchant from Mino.

I saw a cormorant’s nest on a rock.

Over the waves, faithful to their vow— the cormorants’ nest.

So Sora wrote.

I lingered in Sakata for several days, then set my heart toward the clouds of the Hokuriku Road. The thought of the long journey pained my chest. I heard it was a hundred and thirty miles to Kaga Province. I crossed the barrier of Nezu and entered Echigo, then changed to traveling on foot in the province of Etchu, reaching the Hitotohashi Barrier. For nine days I struggled with the heat and damp, exhausting my spirit, and fell ill, so I wrote nothing.

The month of literary arts— even the sixth night is not like ordinary nights.

The rough sea— stretching toward Sado, the River of Heaven.

Today I crossed the most dangerous places in the northern country: Oyashirazu, Kozukoshirazu, Inu tori, and Koma gaeshi. Exhausted, I pulled my pillow close and lay down. I heard the voices of two young women from the next room, with an older man's voice mixed in. As I listened, they were pleasure women from Niigata in Echigo, on pilgrimage to Ise. The man had accompanied them as far as this barrier and was to return home the next day. They were writing letters and giving him messages. I heard one say, “I drift along the shore where the white waves break. I have fallen low in this world, and my days are full of uncertain bonds. How wretched is my karma from past deeds!” I fell asleep listening to them, and in the morning when I set out, they spoke to me: “We do not know the road, and our journey is so sad and uncertain. Please, let us follow you, even if only out of sight.

Have pity on us, and grant us the grace of the Great Compassion so that we may form a bond with the Dharma.” Tears fell from their eyes. It was pitiful, but I said, “We often stop in various places. You must just follow the road as others do. The gods will surely protect you.” I left them, but my heart was heavy with pity for a long time after.

In the same house the pleasure women slept— bush clover and the moon.

I told this to Sora, and he wrote it down.

I crossed many rivers—how many, I do not know—including Kurobe no Yonjuhachi-taki, and came out at a bay called Nago. I asked someone about the “wisteria waves of Takkuri,” which one might lament even in autumn, not only in spring. They told me it was about five miles along the coast. I entered the shadow of the mountain opposite, and since the fishermen's thatched huts looked so desolate, I was warned that no one would give me lodging for a night among the reeds. So I crossed into Kaga Province.

The scent of early rice— on the left, the priest Bun enters the blue sea.

I crossed Mount Unohana and the valley of Kurikara, and reached Kanazawa on the fifth day of the seventh month. There was a merchant from Osaka, a certain Mr. Doko, with whom I shared lodgings. I heard of a man named Issho, a devotee of this Way, who had been expecting me, but he had died suddenly the previous winter. His elder brother held a memorial service for him.

Move, O grave— my weeping voice is the autumn wind.

I was invited to a grass hut.

Autumn cool— each hand peels cucumbers and eggplants.

Composed on the road:

Bright, bright— the sun is so indifferent, yet the autumn wind.

At a place called Komatsu:

Such a poetic name— Komatsu— bush clover and susuki sway.

Here I paid my respects at Ota Shrine. There was a brocade piece from the helmet called Sanemori. Long ago, when Sanemori served the Genji clan, Lord Yoshitomo had given it to him. It was clearly not Heike work. From the visor to the turn-back, the design of chrysanthemums and arabesques was inlaid with gold, and the dragon's head was adorned with a crest. After Sanemori died in battle, Kiso Yoshinaka placed it in this shrine with a prayer. The story of Hachiro no Jiro's messenger was recorded in the shrine's chronicles, right before my eyes.

How pathetic— under the helmet, a cricket.

I walked toward Yamanaka. I left Mount Shirane behind and traveled on. On the left side of the road was a Kannon hall. The Retired Emperor Kazan completed his pilgrimage to thirty-three sacred places and enshrined an image of the Great Compassionate One here, calling the place “Nata.” The two characters of Nachi and Taiko were divided, I was told. Strange rocks lay about, old pines lined the path, and a small thatched hall was built upon the rocks. It was a truly holy place.

Whiter than the rocks of Ishiyama— the autumn wind.

I bathed in the hot springs. Their virtue is said to be second only to Ariake.

Here in Yamanaka— I will not pick the chrysanthemums— the scent of the hot springs.

My host was a boy called Kume no Suke. He told me that a man named Teishitsu from Kyoto, when young, came here long ago. He was humiliated in the Way of haikai, returned to Kyoto, became a disciple of the old master Teitoku, and achieved fame. Now, Teishitsu was said to refuse payment for his judgment of poems in this village. What an old tale this became.

Sora had developed stomach pain and went ahead to Nagashima in Ise Province. He left this verse:

Keep walking— if you fall, just fall on the bush clover plain.

So Sora wrote. The one who leaves feels sorrow, the one who stays feels regret, like a pair of wild geese separated and lost in the clouds. I too wrote:

From today, I shall write on my hat— drops of dew.

I lodged at a temple called Daishoji, which was also known as Shinshoji, still in the land of Kaga. Sora had stayed the night before at this very temple and left this verse:

All night long I listen to the autumn wind— the hills of Ura.

Though he was only one night's distance from me, it felt like a thousand miles. I too, listening to the autumn wind in the monks' quarters, composed a verse. The sound of the sutra chanting grew clear in the dawn sky, and when the bell and wooden board sounded, we entered the hall for the morning meal.

I was impatient to reach Echizen Province, so I hurried down from the hall. The young monks, carrying paper and inkstone, chased after me as far as the stairs. Just then, the willow in the garden was shedding its leaves.

I sweep the garden and leave— the falling willow leaves at the temple.

Hardly stopping to think, I headed for the border of Echizen. I rowed across the inlet of Yoshizaki and sought the Pine of Shiogoshi.

All night long, the storm brings waves to the shore, and the moon clears— the Pine of Shiogoshi.

With this single poem, the whole scene was complete. To add any further comment would be like adding an unnecessary finger.

I visited the elder of Tenryuji in Maruoka, an old acquaintance. A man from Kanazawa called Hokushi, whom I had met only briefly, also followed me here. We talked at length of the landscapes we had passed, and he shared his heartfelt poetic ideas. Now at the time of parting:

Writing on my fan, I tear it in half— a keepsake.

A mile into the mountains, I paid my respects at Eiheiji, the temple of the Zen master Dogen. Though he had fled the troubles of the capital, it must have been for some noble reason that he left his traces in such a mountain recess.

Fukui was about three miles away. After a quick supper, I set out in the twilight, finding my way with difficulty. There was an old hermit called Tosai, who had come to Edo many years ago to visit me. It had been over ten years. I asked about him: “How is he aging? Is he dead?” People told me he was still alive and directed me here and there. I slipped quietly into the city and found a strange little house where gourds and ivy grew over the entrance, and cockscomb and broom plants hid the door. “This must be the place,” I thought, and knocked. A woman who looked poor came out. “Where have you come from? Are you a wandering priest? My husband has gone to someone's house nearby. If you need him, please go and look for him there.” I realized she must be his wife. I thought, “This is exactly the sort of scene from an old tale.” Soon I found him and stayed at his house for two nights.

When I set out for the port of Tsuruga to see the full moon, Tosai insisted on seeing me off, hiking up his skirts in an amusing way and saying he would be my guide.

Mount Shirane hides, and the island of Hina appears.

Crossing Azumuta Bridge, the reeds of Tamae have put forth their ears.

Passing the barrier of Uguisu, I crossed Yunohana Pass. Then I saw Horo Castle and Mount Kaeru, and sought the first wild geese.

On the evening of the fourteenth day, I found lodging at the port of Tsuruga. That night the moon was clear. I said to my host, “Will tomorrow night be like this?” He replied, “In these northern lands, it is hard to tell. You cannot predict tomorrow night's clearness or cloudiness.” He pressed sake on me, and I made a night visit to the shrine of Kehi, which is the shrine of Emperor Chuai. The shrine was solemn in the moonlight, with the pines filtering the moonlight onto the white sand before the shrine, which lay like frost. In olden times, the second saint of the Yugyo school made a great vow, personally cut the grass, carried earth and stones, dried the muddy ground, and cleared the path for pilgrims. This custom has been maintained to the present day: the pilgrims still carry sand to the shrine. This is called “Suna-mochi of the Yugyo,” as the host told me.

How clear the moon— on the sand carried by the wandering saint.

On the fifteenth day, as the host had warned, it rained.

The harvest moon— the weather in the north is so uncertain.

On the sixteenth day, the sky cleared. I wanted to collect the little shells called masuho, so I had a boat race across the bay to Tane no Hama, seven miles out. A man named Amaya prepared baskets and bamboo tubes with care, loaded many servants into the boat, and with a following wind, we soon reached the shore. The beach was only a few humble fishermen's huts and a quiet temple called Hokkeji. There we drank tea, warmed sake, and could not bear the loneliness of the evening.

How still— surpassing Suma Beach— an autumn shore.

Among the waves— little shells mixed with the dust of bush clover.

That day, as it happened, I had Tosai write a poem and left it at the temple. Roto also came to meet me at this port and accompanied me back to Mino Province. Aided by a horse, I entered the village of Ogaki. Sora had come from Ise to meet me, and Etsujin came galloping on his horse. We gathered at the house of Joko. Zenzenko, Keikō, and his son, and many other close friends came to greet me, as if I had been brought back from the dead. They were overjoyed and also grieved. The weariness of the journey had not yet faded, but on the sixth day of the ninth month, I decided to board a boat again to worship at the Grand Shrine of Ise.

With the clamshell of Futami—I part from the departing autumn.

Thus it was that I fell from favor, and the fame of my accomplishments spread. But after that, I never again received even a single village’s judgment fee for my verses. Now that story has become no more than an old tale.

Sora developed a pain in his belly, so he went on ahead to a place called Nagashima in Ise Province. I set these lines down for him:

> As you go on your way, > even if you should fall and lie there, > remember the fields of bush clover.

The sorrow of the one who leaves, and the regret of the one who remains—they are like a pair of wild ducks parting and losing each other in the clouds. I too wrote:

> From today, I suppose, > I must write “dew on my hat” > upon my traveler’s hat.

We stopped to lodge at a temple called Daishō-ji of the Jōshō-ji school, still in the land of Kaga. Sora too had stayed at this temple the night before, and he left these words:

> All night long > I listen to the autumn wind— > the hills behind the temple.

Though we were separated by only one night, it felt like a thousand miles. I too listened to the autumn wind as I lay in the monks’ quarters. At dawn, when the sound of chanting grew clear, the bell rang for the morning meal.

Hurrying to depart for Echizen Province, I hurried down from the hall, when young monks came chasing after me with paper and inkstone, even following me to the foot of the steps. Just then, willow leaves scattered in the garden. So I said:

> I take a garden broom > and leave the temple— > the willow scattering its leaves.

Without further ado, I set out for the border of Echizen, rowing into the inlet of Yoshizaki, and sought out the famous “Shiogoshi no Matsu,” the Pine of the Tidal Crossing. I composed a poem:

> All night long > the storm-wind carries the waves— > the moon shines clear > on the Pine of the Tidal Crossing.

With this single poem, I felt the entire scene was captured; to add any further explanation would be like attaching an unnecessary finger to the hand.

I next visited an old acquaintance, the chief priest of Tenryū-ji in Maruoka. There I also met a certain Hokushi from Kanazawa, who had passed by briefly before but now followed me here. We spoke of the various landscapes we had seen and the sad thoughts that had come to us along the way. When it came time to part, I wrote:

> I paint a picture, > then tear my fan in half— > the memory of this farewell.

Going about fifty chō into the mountains, I paid a visit to Eihei-ji, the temple of the Zen master Dōgen. They say that this great teacher once fled the affairs of the world and left his traces in these mountain shadows—surely a noble reason for doing so.

From there, I traveled about three ri to Fukui, where I had a quick meal and set out again, following the darkening road. In that place there lived an old hermit named Tōsai. Many years ago, he had come to Edo and visited me—that must have been more than ten years now. I wondered: had he grown old and decrepit? Or had he perhaps died? When I asked about him, people said he was still alive and gave me vague directions.

I slipped into the heart of the town and found a small, wretched house. Evening glories and snake gourds crept over the eaves, and the gate was hidden behind cockscombs and broom plants. “So this is where he lives!” I thought as I knocked. A woman, looking frail and poor, came out. “Are you a monk on pilgrimage?” she said. “The master of the house has gone to visit someone nearby. If you need him, you might try to find him.” I understood that she must be his wife. It seemed to me that such a scene could have come straight from an old tale. I soon found him, and we spent two nights at his house together.

On the night of the full moon, I prepared to leave for the port of Tsuruga, and Tōsai, picking up his robe, insisted on seeing me off, saying he would be a guide for my journey.

> Mount Shirane is hidden, > and the island of Hina comes into view— > I cross the Asamuzu Bridge.

The reeds at Tamae had already put out their ears. We crossed the Barrier of the Nightingale, then passed over the Yūno Pass. From there we saw the castle of Hiburi and Mount Kaeru, and we searched for the first wild geese. On the evening of the fourteenth day, we found lodging at the port of Tsuruga.

That night the moon was clear. “Will tomorrow night be the same?” I asked. “That is not easy to predict along these northern roads,” said my host, and he offered me sake. I made a night visit to the shrine of Kahi—the sacred mausoleum of Emperor Chūai. The shrine grounds were filled with an ancient stillness, and the moonlight pouring through the pines made the white sand of the approach look like a layer of frost.

Long ago, the second generation of wandering holy men, Ippen Shōnin, made a great vow. He personally cut the grass, carried stones, and dried up the mud, so that pilgrims might come and go without trouble. To this day, the old tradition is kept, and the holy men still carry sand to the shrine. This is called “the sand-carrying of the wandering monk.” My innkeeper told me this story, and so I wrote:

> How clear the moon! > On the sand carried > by the wandering monk.

On the fifteenth day, as my innkeeper had predicted, it rained.

> The harvest moon— > in the northern provinces, > the weather is never certain.

On the sixteenth, the sky cleared, and I decided to row out to collect the pretty little shells called masuho. I went to the beach of Tane-no-hama, about seven ri out to sea. A certain Ten’ya prepared fine baskets and bamboo tubes, and many servants loaded them onto the boat. With a following wind, we reached the shore in no time. There was a small, lonely Hokke-ji temple on the beach, a humble place of poor fishermen. We drank tea, warmed some sake, and gave ourselves over to the melancholy of the evening.

> What a lonely scene— > the autumn on this beach > surpasses even Suma.

> Among the waves, > the little shells mix > with dust of bush clover.

That day I had Tōsai write down the poems I had composed and left them at the temple. Meanwhile, the poet Rotsū had come to meet me at this port, and accompanied me on to Mino Province, with the help of a horse we hired. When I entered the village of Ōgaki, Sora came from Ise to join me, and the poet Etsujin also galloped up on horseback. We gathered at the house of Nyogyō. Also present were Maekawa no Ko, Keikō and his son, and many other close friends. They welcomed me as if I had returned from the dead, and with joy and sympathy they comforted me. The weariness of my journey had not yet left me, but on the sixth day of the month of long rains, I boarded a boat once more, hoping to see the shrine at Ise during its rebuilding.

> In autumn, parting— > I see the two halves > of a clam shell.