On the Great Eastern Road IX

  

Getting a jump start on the heat.  People on the way to work, popping into Mishima Taisha.  I wander the cool of the grounds, passing a man chanting not to the altar but to the waters of the pond. 

I stroll the high street, it too tidy and clean.  Mishima cares about itself, with its historical markers, ample green spaces, nice little lanes free from the bondage of power lines.  Not much of old history remains, but that could be a war casualty, as the city once hosted an artillery unit, and neighboring Numazu was bombed late in the war. 

A police car roars up to stop at a hotel I just passed.  Another cop comes running. At the train crossing is an overweight cop, not running.
 Something amiss, which I'll never discover.  

I know I am at the edge of the old post town when I see the joyato latern. There's a small strand of namiki here too, barely two meters high.  There's little on the landscape beyond to entertain me, so I put in the headphones and listen to a mix of Tom Waits cover tunes.  I discovered him just before moving to Japan, his Anthology being one of a mere ten cassettes I brought over.  His songs remind me of an old girlfriend, a refugee from the Kobe quake of 1995, and a rainy Sunday where we lay on the tatami and sang Tom's songs out into the darkened room. He also reminds me of Jordan, now dear departed, and memories of him, and lost others cause me to weep as I stroll on. No need to feel embarrassed for this, tears are liquid love.    

Things stay industrial awhile, then I enter Numazu.  I'd looked forward to seeing this, the former home of a good friend.  But the Tōkaidō keeps me away from the city's best face.  Instead I'm walking the strip mall look of her outskirts, before being dumped onto Route 163.  

Thus begins hell.  On the map, I thought I'd be on a quiet little suburban road, which it is, but one with the near constant hum of passing cars.  I'm forced to stay on the sidewalk, which breaks my stride with every dip of driveway and perpendicular lane. It is the worst of all worlds as there are no real shops or places to take a break. I will walk this hellish route for three full hours.     

In hindsight, I should have walked the parallel beach road instead, but worried I'd miss the history.  Yet my route has few traces.  There are the odd signs and markers, but nothing remains of what they once marked. 

Literally, the only real find of the day is Hakuin's birthplace, but it too is modern and concrete.  I look around for his grave, a half-hearted attempt because I want to get on with it. It remained unfound, though I do find the grave of his mother.  There are a few markers at Hara post town for old historical sites, but they stand before the usual dull suburban homes. There is not a single trace of anything on this road.


Have I mentioned the heat?   Thirty-seven degrees, and no shade for there are no trees.  Things leap out from my somnambulistic march. A greenhouse seemingly built solely for a ping-pong table.  An anti-aging salon, but even the sign is faded.  A closed izakaya, but the owner obviously lives up top, for I spy what must be his work apron dancing on the line.  It reminds me of the breeze and I feel cool for about four or five seconds. In one section stand a startling number of abandoned houses, one after another after another. Vegetation is starting to take hold again.

By some miracle I come across a cafe opening just on the stroke of 11.  A few other people have turned up as well, dressed in tidy clothes and waiting in tidy cars with the A/C on max.  A startling contrast, I pull off the reek of shoes and my forearms darken the handsome wooden counter before which I pour myself.  My ice coffee costs twice what it should, and is downed in half the time.  I wanted to rest longer in the cool, but my current condition soon has me ashamedly heading for the door.  

I have a second fish out of water experience at lunch.  I find a small eatery, yet when I enter I find it filled with rough workmen.  They take up both tables, but I'm invited to sit with the workers, who are welcoming.  As my buttocks is mere centimeters above a stool that looks more at home in an elementary school cafeteria, the guy across from me lights up a cigarette.  Like a marionette, I pop back up, saying a more polite equivalent of "Can't ya see I'm walking here? I'd rather not be around smoke."  I step back outside and walk a few meters, noting on the map that the next shop is a full hour onward, a ramen shop.  And it's not really ramen weather. 

I sheepishly reenter, to hear one of the workman say, "I knew it," under his breath.  And it's not really a day for okonomiyaki either, but that's all that this shop does.  The one I get is perhaps the worst I've ever had, basically an undercooked cabbage patty barely held together by batter.  The draft beer is a winner, and I feel a bit like Alan Booth when I order a second.  The workmen have left by now, but not after they've all had shaved ice.  I follow suit, my Blue Hawaii leaving me humming Elvis as I step back into the blazing sun.   

What else to report?  My busy road leading to an even busier road?  Relief in a final stretch along a quieter lane, but one devoid of any interest?  The clouds are coming over now, but bring little cool.  I pick up the pace in order to catch an earlier train, which will allow for a longer soak in the hotel bath before I meet friend and former Blockhead David for beer and lite bites at Baird Taproom back in Mishima.  Such is my reward for what was certainly the worst single day of walking I've ever had.  

 

On the turntable: Abbey Lincoln, "Abbey is Blue"  

 

On the Great Eastern Road VIII

 

 

Has it really been six years since I left off this walk in Hakone?  The weather is a far cry from what it had been on that December day, hot, the height of August, yet with a cooling breeze for which I am grateful. Even the earliest train wasn't going to get me up here till 11 and the bus that I'd needed was 15 minutes late, thanks to the usual unprepared cluelessness of foreign tourists when it comes to paying the fares. So it was that stepped out into the full heat of day.


There is a remarkable amount of ishitatami on this part of the Tōkaidō.  And it begins immediately out of town, up Kamaishi-zaka. Due to storms, the trail looks pretty beat up, many of the stones rolled out of place, and in certain depressions in the trail, the detritus has built up. Walkers have gone through, obvious from the fact that the tall grass of late summer has been pushed aside. But each cobweb I break with my face is an indicator that no one had been through recently.

I'll only have one true climb of the day. From the vantage point of town, Tōge-chaya looks pretty far up there. Before I know it I am up and over the pass, but coming down the other side will be the problem. I'd noted the day before that a section of trail was closed due to a landslide back in 2019. 
Photos on Google Maps seemed to suggest that you could make your way around the barricade, which is what I had initially intended to do.  But coming up on the bus, I saw the barricade on the lower side, and it looked pretty impenetrable. And the more I thought about it, the more I thought I'd stick with the detour route.  I know I've previously mentioned that I don't like to edit when it comes to historic road walks, but do I delude myself in thinking that this Tōkaidō has always been the exact same route as it is today, since its earliest origins? Contemporary weather systems are getting more intense, with more and more trails getting damaged, yet ancient weather too did happen. 
Not to mention political turmoil and other problems. Throughout history, all of these trail systems would have changed from time to time. It's been six years since the landslide and I'm not terribly optimistic that they're going to fix it after all this time. But I'd like to think it'll reopen again, and the easy access makes it easy to return to.  Perhaps if it were a few hours earlier, or the day five degrees cooler, I might jump the barricade and go for it.

The road walk keep me on the busy Route 1, which winds its way down toward Mishima. Luckily, the old route keeps me off it for the most part, but for this detour. 
It's almost a blessing that it's about 26 degrees up here, versus 31 down in the valley. And as I'm exposed walking the tarmac, I'm thankful for the layer of overcast and the wind that accompanies it.

Once past the blockage, I feel the familiar round of stonework under my feet, which continues for a full six kilometers, broken only when bisecting Route 1.  One of the good things about ishitatami is that due to the uneven footing of the path, walkers are forced focus on their walking and not on their phones.  The trees on both sides are majestic, the forest alive with sound at mid-summer.  Plentiful stone figures keep my company, as well as markers for old small temple halls that didn't survive the transition to the modern world.  The once grand Yamanaka Castle itself did not, and I plan to return another day to trace her sylvan contours.  

 

 

I pass the aerial labyrinth of Dragon Castle, the dizzying heights of the Sky Walk, but my own walk continues over earth and stone.  Stone becomes tarmac in a small hamlet, and the road descends at an insane angle down the steep hillside.  It would be impossible to drive this in the ice and snow, and I walk backward awhile, my shins unable to handle the strain of the pitch.  This slope has been given a name, as have many of the others, reminders that I've dropped over 800 meters since the pass of many hours back.  

Just outside Mishima, I encounter a large tow-truck casually propping up a tourist bus, the latter a victim of an engine fire, but later scanning the news I find nothing.  The entrance to town proper is marked by a large stone for the Hakone road, and suddenly the Tōkaidō joins Route 1.  I'm actually walking a surfaced trail just above it, the road below lined with namiki, extending a full five kilometers, the longest stretch I've ever seen.  The irony of course is that the Shogunate planted all these trees in order to provided shade and shelter for walkers, but here I am in full sun, the cars below getting all the benefit.  The walker has no place in modern Japan.  

Eventually I come to Mishima Taisha, and I leave the old road in order to angle toward my hotel.  Shirataki Park is a beautiful oasis, kids in full frolic in the waters of the pond, with gossiping mothers as lifeguards.  I find myself attracted to a certain type of city in Japan, one comfortable in its modest size.  An easy scale to protect the culture, the quirks.  I am immediately attracted to the tree-lined streets, the bookshop cafe, the variety of its small eateries, the certain absence of big chain shops.  Yes, here too I could make a life.

I chose my hotel for the hot baths on its top floor, sure remedy for achy legs and sore feet.  Here I soak awhile, as Fuji looms up for the first time all day.  Her cabaret act is a flirtatious baring of a single shoulder, and only for about five minutes.  A tease, but those climbing her today are surely getting some bad weather. Not me.  Here I soak.  

I backtrack a little to Slider House for its burgers and 24 taps.  I settle into a plush leather armchair that serve as bar stools.  One beer follows another, and another, as I find it hard to leave my comfy seat, and my book of letters by Hunter S. Thompson.  But tomorrow's walk eventually taps my shoulder, and I force heavy feet to lead me toward bed.       

 

On the turntable:  Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers, "Pack Up the Plantation: Live!"