I'd sweet-talked (cajoled/bullied) our hotel into picking us up an hour early, playing the pity card about us being cold and wet. Watarase Onsen was a cluster of hotels, seemingly owned by a single organization. Daniel was booked into one hotel, myself into another, but due to the low number of guests, we were all consolidated into a third. So it was that I had to go back out into the still heavy rain in order to use the baths, across another old suspension bridge lit up with shooting stars after dark.
Dinner was heavy, breakfast even more so. And as we are driven out to the start of our walk, the sun shines for the first time in a week. I've tried to walk the Akagi-goe at least four times while I was down here guiding assignments, but the trail crews can't seem to get on top of the typhoon damage from summer 2018. This time I clamber over the ropes blocking the trail, saying fuck it, I'll deal with whatever comes.
Which is nothing. We descend into a narrow valley split by a small stream. I well remember this as being one of the more attractive parts of the Nakahechi when I walking it 2009. A large digger rests in the water, and we walk briskly and quietly to the site, expecting to be told off by repair crews. But no one is around. We cross a low, temporary bridge made of logs, which adds a nice new feature to the trail. But we never once have to detour or scramble over anything. Why is this section still closed?
A nice set of toilets marks the start of the Akagi-goe proper, which climbs stiffly from there. We're doing the route in the reverse of how it is usually approached, and after a mere 10 minutes or so reach the highest point of the trail. From here it is a ridge walk, offering near constant views of a breathtaking number of mountains that fold and fold and fold again upon themselves. The wind is beginning to pick up as we reach first a massive (UNESCO World Heritage) clear-cut, then a crumbling old homestead that had been occupied until about 1970. Teapots, furniture, and farm equipment still litters the place, and the sight of the graves of at least three children in the family plot out back is a testament to the hard life in the remote country.
After a final knee-killing descent, we reach Yunomine Onsen. I have another walk in mind from here, through the hills to Kawayu Onsen, then along the river to the main road where there is a country store and a bus stop. It takes a few minutes to find this minor trail, and even then we get it wrong. My GPS drifts to make it appear that we are going right, but what we're scrambling along can't be more than a deer trail. But I'm enjoying the slippery bushwhack around a waterfall to get to the actual trail, which when looking back toward the source, seems to start where we'd been standing ten minutes before.
The track is paved and leads through a quiet valley to a small hamlet where we meet proper road. As we wend down toward Watarase, we pass a house that we presume is half-abandoned, and a few minutes later its apparent resident confirms it, this half-mad homeless type who looks to be squatting there.
The climb out of Watarase is steep, so we rest a few minutes with the sakura trees and the view. Kawayu is not long off, quiet today, its riverbed still scarred from the horrendous flooding it suffered in 2018. The final slog is over concrete, and we finally meet the highway.
We're well ahead of our bus, so have our lunch in the bus shelter, out of the wind. The bus finally sweeps us up, and traverses a meandering route on and off Route 311. I'm happy for this, since I've never seen these side valleys during my dozen or so visits down here. Finally we disembark at the Kumano-gawa boat dock, met by a woman in a conical hat and white happi who greets me by name.
Our booking had taken some doing. I'd called a week before, to be told that the boat only went with a minimum of three. Daniel had changed his initial plans so was easy to sway into participating, but when I called the woman again and asked if I could pay two people's fare, thus a total of three, she resisted somewhat. I thought that I'd try again a day or too later, offering to pay the rate for four (still cheaper than transport back down there), but before I had a chance she called to say that an actual third party had booked and the trip was on.
The third party is also a Kohechi walker, or should I say runner, as he'd amazingly done our four day journey in two. The bulge of his calves under spandex confirms this. The conical hats atop all out heads make us look like a box of pencils, as we make our way to the river's edge. Traditionally pilgrims to Hongu had similarly boarded boats for the ride down to Hayatama Jinja in Shingu. I'd walked that route last August, but still felt the need to do the journey properly.
Due to the high winds and the river swollen with rain, the usual 90-minute trip took about an hour. The happi-clad woman narrated much of the trip, most of them tales of a mystical land, of pilgrims and wandering nuns and hermit monks. When she fell silent it was a pleasure to see her easy smile. I'm sure she's done this trip dozens of times, but still seemed to be enjoying herself. Not hard to do, on this the first fine after a week of bad weather. I too knew the route well, having done it by pace of shanks mare, and my eyes rarely left the east bank, seeking familiar features. Nearly every boat trip in Japan seems to have a rock formation shaped like an elephant, but this one is called a dolphin. I instead see a carp. Near the end, we twice circle Mishima, a small rock cropping where the gods of Kumano gather, and is thus of limits to man.
We say goodbye on the bank adjacent, which is mere steps from the shrine. Daniel and I offer a quick prayer, then walk through Shingu's shuttered arcade back toward the station. I've just missed my train, and have about two hours to kill. Daniel plans to take a bus back into Kumano and do the high mountain traverse to Nachi the following day, thus completing the triptych. We buy beers and head toward a small park to kill time, but when he checks the bus schedule along the way, finds one leaving in 10 minutes. Then he's gone.
I walk over to the park that celebrates Jofuku, known by his native Chinese name as Xu Fu. This wanderer arrived in Shingu 2200 years ago, seeking immortality. The Green Shinto blog has a recent series of posts which speculate that Xu Fu was actually the emperor Jimmu, who according to legend was guided by the yatagarasu three-legged crow to the Kumano area, which he then consecrated as sacred. But I'm not thinking about this as I crack my beer. I'm thinking about how good it feels to sit with the final rays of the day's sun striking my face, and while immortality may or may not be attainable, it certain feels good not to be in a rush, to have all the time in the world.
On the turntable: Garland Jeffreys: "Matador and More"
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