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370 Province through the Barrier of Shitomae. Few travelers journey this road, and we were looked upon with suspicion by the guards at the border. Only with much trouble did we manage to get through.

By the time we had climbed the big mountain there, the sun had already set. Discovering a guard’s house, we asked for a place to sleep. For three days a terrible storm raged, and we had no choice but to remain in the mountains.

Our host told us, “The road to Dewa lies through the mountains, and is so badly marked that you had best get a guide to show the way.” “Very well,” I said, and hired one, a strong young fellow who wore a scimitar at his side and carried an oak stick. He walked ahead and, thinking uneasily that today we were certain to meet with danger, we followed him. The journey was just as our host had described it—high mountains densely overgrown in which not a single bird-cry was heard. It was dark under the trees, so dark that it was like walking at midnight. Feeling as though dust were raining from the edges of the clouds, we pushed our way through clumps of bamboo, crossed streams, and stumbled over rocks, until we finally reached the town of Mogami, our bodies bathed in a cold sweat.

When our guide left us he said with a smile, “Something unpleasant always happens on this road. I was lucky to have been able to lead you here safely.” To hear such words, even after our safe arrival, made our hearts pound.

At Obanasawa I called on Seifū, a man of noble aspiration, rich though he is. Since he often visits Kyoto, he knew how it feels to be a traveler, and detained us for several days, showering every attention on us, out of sympathy for our long journey.