Behind a temple called Ungan-ji, which is not far from Kurobane, my Zen mentor, the priest Butcho, once had his monastic retreat. I remembered him saying he had inscribed the following poem in pinewood charcoal on a rock:

Scarcely five feet wide,
And no more than five feet high,
Is my humble cell.
Yet I'd need no hut at all,
Were it not for rains that fall.

Wanting to see what remained of the retreat, I inclined my staff towards the temple of Ungan-ji. A group of friends from Kurobane wanted to come too. There were many young people, and we had such a jolly time along the way, we reached the foot of the mountain before we knew it.

A path disappeared up a valley amidst a dark forest of pines and cryptomerias. Dew dripped from the moss, and though it was early summer, the air was cold. At the end of a picturesque approach called "the Ten Views," we crossed a bridge and passed through the two-tiered temple gate.

Wondering where to find the site of the retreat, we clambered up a hill behind the temple and saw a tiny hut built atop a rock and propped against a small cave. It looked for all the world like Yuan-miao's cave, "Death's Gate," in China or Fa-yun's rock-top retreat.

Woodpecker! 'tis well
You harm not this hermitage
In its summer dell!

I hastily penned these lines and left the verse hanging on a post of the hut.