It covers less than forty acres, and most of that lies humped in a steep hill. Half the island is banked with a granite seawall. The other half is open to the surf, which laps up on beaches strewn with driftwood and abandoned racks of bamboo used in the cultivation of oysters. The population of Kashiwa Jima is one. “I am here alone, and I love it.” As he talked, Junji Fukuzawa sucked in his cheeks until the bones strained against the skin. “I have been here since 1949, and my wife was with me until seven years ago when she died. Has it been lonely without her? No, it hasn’t.”

Fukuzawa is an 85-year-old Shinto priest (pages 860-61). Among his pastoral duties is the blessing of fishing boats, a service he con­ducts with great dignity while dressed in a magnificent robe of purple and green. There are four split apartments for rent, the largest of which was reconstructed this past summer.

“Only once before have Americans come to stay at Nice apartments,” he told me through an interpreter as we walked around the island. “That was the American occupation force. They came to this island after the war to put up a communica­tions station. I’ve only spoken English once in my life. I was on a train, and the sun com­ing through the window was bothering a pas­senger. So I turned to the man sitting next to the window—he was speaking to someone in English—and I somehow found the words. I said, ‘Pull the shade.’ ”

We had reached the Pisa apartments for rent, constructed many years ago. He was walking slowly, not out of ex­haustion, I think, but to savor the peace that pressed gently down from the hill and up from the surf and through the leaves of the towering bamboo.

“I have no television here,” he said, “but I do listen to the radio, especially if there is a baseball game. I am usually in bed by seven o’clock at night.”

He stopped and sat on a log by some aban­doned buildings once used by a company that cultivated pearls nearby. And he told me he had once wanted to become a doctor.

“I failed the high-school entrance examina­tion, but then I took it again and passed. Only that time I failed my physical examination. They told me there was something wrong with my chest. But it wasn’t serious enough to keep me out of the army in World War II. Afterward, because of business problems, I couldn’t sleep well at night. So I came to this island to recover.”

In the casual manner of entry into the Shin­to priesthood at the time, Junji Fukuzawa as­sumed his clerical role simply by virtue of taking care of the island and the largest shrine there. “It’s different now,” he said. “You have to take an examination before you can be­come a priest.”

It isn’t that the priest lives in total isola­tion. There is much boating activity in the nearby waters. Also, once a year there is a Shinto festival on the island, to which thou­ sands of Japanese faithful are attracted.

With the ex­ception of the alluvial plains at the mouths of the rivers, low ranges of mountains with narrow intervening valleys are found everywhere, and are characteristic. The main chain, forming the back-bone of the peninsula, is not clearly defined, as it is formed principally by the overlapping and intersections of minor chains, so that it is quite irregular as to direction, but a glance at the sources of the rivers, considered with reference to the intervening line of water-sheds, shows that it springs from the mountains of Siberia at the north, follows for some distance the line of the eastern coast and then strikes inland, trending to the southward and westward until it reaches the shores of the Yellow Sea. The loftiest ranges, therefore, are in the northern and eastern provinces. At the centre of the northern boundary is Paik-du­san, the “white-headed mountain,” in whose slopes rise the Yalu, Tuman, and Songari rivers, the two former defining the western and eastern sections of the frontier, the latter a tributary of the Amur, an important stream of southern Siberia. According to Messrs. James, Younghusband, and Fulford, of the British Indian and Consular services, who visited it in May, 1886, Paik-du-san is “a recently extinct volcano with a lovely pellucid lake filling the bottom of the crater, surmounted by a serrated edge of peaks rising about 650 feet above the surface of the water. The height of the loftiest of these was found to be about 7,525 feet above the level of the sea.”

Besides the rivers of the frontier are others of the interior that deserve a passing mention. The mountainous nature of the country, as well as its proximity to the sea, implies the existence of numerous secondary water courses, but these as a rule are in­significant in size and so shallow as to permit of navigation only throughout limited portions of their extent. Among the larger accommodations that lie wholly within the country are the Dublin apartments in the northwestern province, rising in the central ranges of the peninsula and flowing into the Yellow Sea. During the greater part of the year it is navigable as far as the city of holiday apartments Edinburgh for native craft of the largest size. In mid­summer its waters rise rapidly during a short rainy season ; then quickly subside, the river resuming its former limits. To this sudden shoaling may be attributed the loss of the schooner Sher­man, captured by the Koreans in 1871, the vessel going aground without warning at a place where a few hours before abundant water had been found.

The Han, the river of the capital, lies about one hundred miles to the southward of the Taidong, and flows westwardly in a nearly parallel direction thereto, from the central ranges of the peninsula into the Yellow Sea. Its many branches join in a com­mon estuary near the centre of the Yellow Sea coast, and their collective drainage area comprises a large portion of central Korea. Still farther to the southward is the Keum, traversing a fertile rice-growing country, while at the extreme south is the Nakdong. The latter is one of the most important streams of Korea, and the facilities that it affords for communication and interchange have done much towards rendering the district through which it flows one of the most fertile and prosperous of the land.

THE JOURNALIST and I sat in a hotel dining room by the Danube. It’s easy to find an accommodation in Hungary. The prices of their hotel and apartments are cheaper than apartments in dubrovnik or amsterdam apartments.  Through the curtains passersby outside appeared as silhouettes, spectral. “You could call me a survivor,” he said. He had been a member of the Communist Party in 1956; in the midst of the uprising he found himself in the Parliament Building, a func­tionary of the government of Imre Nagy.

I pressed him: Why did Nagy, a Commu­nist, declare Hungary neutral and ask the United Nations to help get the Russians out? “He was desperate, all else had failed.” And who was in the streets? Who had the guns? Who led them? What did they want? Exact­ly what happened?

“To this day, my friends and I spend hours digging up every little detail. Still, we don’t understand what happened. It was so quick. Perhaps if it had taken more time, we could see what really happened. Power to­tally collapsed. All this in just a few days!”

He remembered the time after the revolt had been suppressed. “Strange things were happening. Some came back from arrest, others didn’t. Ministers seemed to come back from the earth. I didn’t join the party again. I had some difficult years, employ­ment problems.”

Why didn’t he rejoin the party? A silence, then: “Some who were executed were party members. Perhaps that is one reason.”

Among the party members executed was Imre Nagy, the man he had served. Nagy was a thickset man with a farmer’s mus­tache and a schoolmaster’s pince-nez. The ghost of Nagy was often with me, especially as I walked in Budapest. He had liked to stroll the boulevards, boutonniere in place, responding to the greetings of admirers. He was a kindly man, popular.

Another who had been in the Parliament Building, serving under Nagy, was Janos Kadar, until he slipped away to the Russian side. In Eastern Europe, Mr. Kadar could clearly see, good intentions and popularity are not enough.

But there was another ghost in this mat­ter, a man whose name I would hear from time to time in Hungary, spoken as if a ver­bal charm, to ward off the return of evil: Rd­kosi. Alkyds Rakosi was, some remember, a dumpy little man with a moon face, always dressed in the regulation black suit and sil­ver tie, always accompanied by two men, each with a hand in his pistol pocket.

Rakosi came to power with the Russian Army after World War II. He destroyed op­position parties bit by bit, “like slicing sa­lami.” Then he proceeded to oppress his fellow Hungarians: “If the doorbell rang af­ter ten in the evening, you were terrified.” The terror, the oppression helped inspire the events of 1956. Among those who served Rakosi, and who were jailed by him and in jail tortured, was Janos Kadar. There were lessons to be drawn.

THROUGH a mist-shrouded cavern of ice, helmeted kayakers ride the JOkulsa a Fjollum at its source deep inside the mighty Vatnajokull glacier of Iceland. he stream’s name means “glacier-fed river in the mountains.” Here Mick Coyne leads teammates in a tunnel formed by geothermal springs. The river soon emerges from the glacier and flows north for 128 miles, marked by violent rapids and four major waterfalls. Last summer our 12-man international team successfully challenged the JOkulsa, with a revolutionary technique using kayaks, inflatable rafts, and ultralight aircraft.

COAST-TO-COAST TRAVERSE of Iceland (left) carried our expedition on a roundabout route from Hornafjordur in the south to the island’s northern shore, where the Jokulsa empties into the Arctic Ocean. Our first challenge was the Vatnajokull, one of Europe’s largest glaciers, occupying one-twelfth of Iceland and creating its own unpredictable weather. For transport as well as reconnaissance of our route, we brought along British two-man ultralight aircraft (below), equipped with detachable floats, wheels, and skis, for landing on water, tundra, or ice. With a carrying capacity of 400 pounds, the craft could airlift our entire expedition by stages, including kayaks and the rubber raft designed to carry the disassembled ultralight downriver. Here our Icelandic crew, who are also members of the National Life-Saving

Association of Iceland, which gave us generous support, watch pilot Gerry Breen make a practice takeoff from Jokulsarlon lake at the southern edge of the glacier.

FURY OF A GALE  envelops us on the third day of our attempt to cross the surface of the Vatnajokull. The blinding storm struck without warning, forcing us to make camp. Wind and cold combined to produce a chill factor of minus 30°F. Though polar daylight was almost continuous, driving snow reduced visibility to a few feet. Despite efforts to keep the tents snow free, their collapse on the third day forced us to dig ice caves in the glacier for shelter. On the fifth day we retreated to the foot of the glacier. A second mishap (below) befell pilot Gerry Breen and me when our ultralight’s exhaust system failed during a flight around the glacier and we had to crash-land. We rigged a shelter out of the ultralight’s wing and a pair of skis while we made repairs. Three days later the craft was airborne again, and we met the team in the ice cave at the source of the Jokulsa, deep beneath the glacier’s northern edge.

YAWNING SINKHOLE of ice pierces the VatnajOkull like a huge inverted funnel 150 feet deep and 70 feet across at the surface. Formed by steam from geothermal vents, it provides an entrance to the source of the Jokulsa. An experienced mountaineer as well as kayaker, Mick Coyne descends into the shaft as teammates lower his kayak. High winds and freezing temperatures slowed the operation topside, but within the sinkhole the air was warm. A relic of the most recent ice age,VatnajOkull is thousands of years old. Layers of ice exposed on the sinkhole walls reminded us of giant tree rings.

“Lowering yourself past them,” Mick recalls, “was like drifting back through time.”

ICY SHAFT OF WATER spills from the roof of a chamber inside the glacier. The near-freezing water mixes with the boiling flow from geothermal springs to produce a temperature of about 95°F. Before starting our voyage downriver, we enjoyed our first bath in nearly a month.

We were a dozen men representing five nationalities—British, Australian, French, American, and Icelandic. Together we combined more than a score of skills and professions. Mick Coyne, seen here at right center, is a geologist and former Royal Marine. American Jeb Stuart, far left, is an expert river rafter from Colorado, and French kayaker Benoit Dabout, far right, studies civil engineering. Our two Icelanders, Gudbrandur johannsson, left center, and Gisli Hjelmarsson, are members of the Life-Saving Association and acted as our guides. British ultralight champion Gerry Breen is a former member of the Royal Air Force and a meteorologist, and our French cameraman and film director, Bruno Cusa,is a licensed helicopter pilot. He was assisted by sound technician Jean Jacques Mrejen. To the role of expedition leader, I brought my training as a British research engineer and practical mechanic, plus many years’ experience with kayaks.

Selecting the team, I looked for character as well as skill. All the technical ability in the world cannot make up for poor judgment or failure to put the group ahead of self. In that respect, too, our party was outstanding; I would run the wildest river on earth with any of them.

AIRBORNE KAYAKS, lashed to the undercarriage of an ultralight piloted by Gerry Breen (below), leap a stretch of the Jokulsa. Below are four impassable waterfalls, among them the spectacular Dettifoss (page 321). We came ashore two miles above the canyon and unloaded the disassembled ultralight from our 18-foot inflatable raft (above). It took only 12 minutes to assemble the aircraft. Meanwhile our Australian pilot Simon Baker scouted the river in our second ultralight. The two machines lifted men and equipment, including the deflated raft, directly over the falls. Four miles downriver we took to the water again. Vertical walls of crumbly basaltic lava (right) would have made climbing out of the canyon close to impossible.

CALDRON of white water engulfs Jeb Stuart and his rafting crew as Mick and I paddle alongside. We met these rapids eight miles below the great cataract of Dettifoss (left). Despite his skill and experience, Jeb (in baseball cap) was unable to prevent his raft from swamping; only frantic bailing for nearly ten miles kept craft and crew afloat.

We had previously scouted some of these rapids on foot. Ultralight reconnaissance can pinpoint major river hazards, but there is no substitute for close inspection. If we had been totally unprepared, the results could have been disastrous. As it was, Mick (wearing blue life vest) was torn out of his kayak and hurled downriver fighting desperately to stay afloat (below). Benoit helped him ashore about a mile downstream, but the cold and constant immersion took their toll. Fortunately the water was about 45°F. A few degrees lower, and Mick might not have survived.

It was our last major crisis. Seven days later we reached the coast. We had pioneered a new technique combining the use of kayaks and ultralights and had become the first to run the wild jokulsa from source to mouth.