The nearly thirteen tributaries of big and small rivers in Tsugaru meet in this area to form a huge lake. And here, each river loses its distinct color.
It is also referred to as Jusan Ourai (thirteen roads).
In the lake at the northern end of the Tsugaru Plain, beginning with the Iwaki River, thirteen big and small rivers flow through the Tsugaru Plain. The lake's circumference is around twenty miles. However, the lake is shallow because sediment is carried by the river water. Even the deepest part is said to be about three meters. The water is salty due to the inflow of seawater, but the river water flowing in from the Iwaki River is not insignificant. Near the mouth of the river is fresh water and is home to both freshwater and saltwater fish. At the southern mouth where the lake opens to the Sea of Japan is the small hamlet of Jusan.
The area opened up seven to eight hundred years ago and was the base of the powerful Tsugaru and Ando clans. In the Edo period (1603-1868), the wood resources and rice of Tsugaru were shipped from Port Kodomari in the north and made this region prosperous. But today, there is no trace of this. Gongen-zaki is north of Lake Jusan. However, this area is part of a region important to national defense. Our eyes moved further past the Iwaki River in front of us to a vivid line drawn in blue. It was the Sea of Japan. We saw an unbroken view of the coastline of Shichirinagahama. From Gongen-zaki in the north to Odose-zaki in the south, nothing blocked our view.
"This is nice. I would build a castle right here," I started to say.
"What would you do in the winter?" interrupted Yoko then said nothing.
"Well, it must snow," I said a bit downcast and sighed.
We went down to the mountain stream in the shadow of the mountain and opened the bento lunch in the dry riverbed. The beer we cooled in the stream wasn't bad. My niece and Aya drank apple juice. Then out of the blue, I screamed, "Snake! Snake!"
The son-in-law put the jacket he took off under his arm and stood up halfway.
"It's all right. It's safe," I said and pointed to the cliff face on the other side of the mountain stream, "He's crawling up the cliff over there."
I saw his head pop out of the rapids and watched him clamber up the rock face for just one foot and then fall back down. He quickly started to climb up again and fell back again. The tenacious snake tried twenty times and, predictably, tired and quit. His extended body floated on the surface of the water as it was swept away by the current and close to this side of the shore. This time, Aya stood up. He ran over carrying a branch about six feet long and plunged the branch into the stream to stab the snake. We looked away.
"Is it dead? Is it dead?" I asked in a grieving voice.
"It's been taken care of," said Aya tossing the branch and the snake into the stream.
"Was it a viper?" I asked. I was already scared.
"If it were, I would have caught it alive. That was a rat snake. The liver of a live viper is made into medicine."
"Are there vipers in this mountain?"
"Yes."
That troubled me so I drank some beer.
Aya finished eating before everyone else and dragged over a large log and dumped it into the mountain stream. He gained a foothold on it and flew to the other shore. He clambered up the mountain cliff on the other side to pick wild edible plants like ginseng and thistle.
"That's dangerous. He shouldn't go to a dangerous place like that on purpose. Those plants grow in many other places," I said nervously, critical of Aya's adventure, "Aya is excited and definitely has the ulterior motive of showing off his bravery by putting himself in danger."
"That's true," said my niece agreeing with a wide smile.
"Aya!" I shouted, "Enough. It's dangerous. Enough already."
"Okay," he said and scrambled down the cliff. I was relieved.
On the way home, Yoko carried the plants gathered by Aya. For a long time, this niece has never been phased by much. On the way home, the "still ageless, healthy walker" tired in Sotogahama and went quiet. We descended the mountain to the song of cuckoos. Great loads of timber were piled up at the lumber mill on the outskirts of town. Trucks went back and forth endlessly. This is the scenery of a bountiful village.
"Kanagi shows spirit," I said to no one in particular.
"It does?" asked the son-in-law, who looked a little tired and sounded weary. Caught off balance I said, "No, well, I don't know much, but the Kanagi of ten years ago didn't feel like this. I remember a village in decline, not like it is now. The village felt like it was making a comeback."
At home, I told my oldest brother, the scenery of Kanagi was wonderful and had given me a renewed outlook. He said, "As you get older, you may come to find the landscape of the place where you were born and raised is better than Kyoto and Nara."
The next day, my oldest brother and his wife joined the previous day's party on an outing to Kanoko River Pond about six miles southeast of Kanagi. When we were about to leave, guests appeared at my brother's home, so we left without him. We went out dressed in monpe work pants and wearing white tabi socks and zori sandals. After walking a long way, close to five miles, this
