I started the day far away beside the sea. Being summer, I missed sunrise by about half an hour, but it was still early as I watched the light come up behind Meoto-iwa, the rope between cutting through the orange sphere as if slicing fruit. The wind was up, and every fifth or sixth wave would throw spray onto the concrete trail. This Futamiokitama Shrine had an Ama-no-Iwato, somewhat fakily man-made, and facing the wrong direction. The Ama-no-Iwato cave in the hills not far from here was smaller but had more authenticity in being a bit of work to hike up to. But the Ama-no-Iwato in Kyushu's Takachiho was most impressive of all.
My pick-up was early, and for much of the morning we'd followed the trail I'd left a couple of days before. I showed my colleagues the Bakamagari, and was surprised when they wanted to go through. After the previous visit I'd thought it a miracle I hadn't picked up a leech. And sure enough, back in the car I noticed one wriggling off my ankle. I hollered for the driver to stop, thinking the leech hadn't yet locked its jaws on me, but I was too late. Oddly enough I'd received some sacred salt at my inn the night before, but not wanting to kill the little bastard, I asked the driver for his ETC credit card. When he asked me why, I joked that I wanted to bribe him into letting go. But I found that I could use the card to laterally scrape away the leech's mouth without breaking his head off under the skin, which tends to get infected and itchy later. Incredibly, the leech then fastened itself to the card, making it quite a chore to flick him away as he maintained a strong grip into the plastic.
We continued our drive south. Gone were the days of the beautifully photographic image of the mini rice stalks beneath glass, as the water had by now mainly drained away. It was up to the rains now. But those seemed far away today. The weather was pleasant with a cooling breeze that ruffled the tips of the stalks, like the tousling of hair.
The shops we passed were the usual chain stores found only in the countryside, places familiar to me from my years up in the 'Nog, places I had 'grown up with' and assumed were everywhere. Now living in urban Kansai, I recognized them as country cousins, as old friends.
We finally pulled up at Umegadani Station, where I'd begun my ascent of Nisaka-toge three years before. Today, we'd go up the parallel Tsuzurato-toge that crossed over a ridge to the north. This had been the older pass, until replaced by the Nisaka 300 years ago. Before walking away from the car, I was kitted out in pilgrimage gear: red vest, wooden staff, conical hat. The later proved a bit of a nuisance since it would get jostled by my pack, so after an mere hour I simply hung it from the bag, where it would stay for the rest of the week.
I was kitted out this way so as to be the model for a video being shot to promote the tour. We'd filmed at the Ise shrines the day before, much to the amusement of other visitors. One old granny asked to take a photo together. I wondered what others thought when I was walking alone, far from the camera. But after awhile I forgot about it, much in the way that I tend to forget that how much my height and features make me stand out, how I don't look like everyone else in this country.
Thus attired, I moved out along the rice-laden villages strung along the valley floor. It was a warm day and the clothing didn't breathe well, so it was a relief when we eventually returned to forest. The locals had used the pass until the 1930s, when the road was built. It was a good well-marked trail, with stone steps rising steadily upward like toward Machu Picchu. Now and then I'd have to act out a scene, and I was surprised how much I've missed film acting. There's an awareness that's not self-conscious per se, but more a hyper-consciousness, a focus on every movement and gesture that bespeaks the zen of tea ceremony, or martial arts. Not an action is wasted.
After a brief rest and some off-the-cuff narration at the pass, we began the long walk down. I remembered Nisaka as being similarly long, but this one went on and on. It would be the character of all the passes we'd eventually go on to cross, and pity the poor walker doing this pilgrimage from the other direction. The villages in this next valley were a bit more built up but had a pleasant feel, and its primary canal led us into Kii-Nagashima.
Lunch was fried sunfish eaten outside the michi-no-eki, just as it had been in 2019. We jumped forward then to meet Ueda-san, who would lead us around on a tour of Uomachi. A hipster surfer of sorts, he had a light touch about the whole thing, shooting the bull with fishermen repairing their nets, or flirting with the aunties serving us fish-related bites in the local shops. It was all a reminder of how I've missed spending time with people in rural Japan. There was not the slightest hint of chill in their demeanor, unlike my stone-faced neighbors in Kyoto.
There was a quick climb to the village shrine shadowed over by an immense camphor tree, followed by a long sit in an old house filled with funky Showa-retro delights. Here they screened for us a shadow-puppet version of the village's local legend, cleverly rear-projected onto the shoji screens at the end of the room. When it was finished, we turned in surprise to find standing behind us the thirteenth generation descendant of the film's heroic and long dead samurai. He didn't have much to say, and I felt a little sorry for him, assuming that he is often trotted out to meet and greet passing tourists.
In the temple grounds nearby stood two stones marking the victims of a pair of tsunami. Surprisingly, one of these waves had been caused in the Hōei eruption of far-off Fuji, an event that birthed the eponymously named Hōei pimple that is now a prominent feature on Fuji' eastern flank.
Next to the temple was the house of a woman who had spent most of her young adulthood in New York City, where her husband had been sent for work. Now a widow, she seemed the town celebrity of sorts, leading us on a rapid-fire tour of her home, moving with the grace of true hostess, There was an ease in her being, along with a definitive flirtation. I wondered how she feels now living with her elderly mother in this small village, far from Manhattan and all that the metropolis contains. But she had certainly created her own reality here, teaching English to the local children, and charming foreign visitors who pass along the Kumano Kodō running past her front door.
On the turntable: The Beat, "I Just Can't Stop It"
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