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"
09/10/09
...the bus left the station at 6:30 a.m. and an hour later, let us off where we'd hitched out yesterday. One stop before, a young woman with a large camera had gotten down. Shortly after starting our own hike, we passed yet another lone woman on the trail. I'm often intrigued by these women who travel alone, as it's not done much here in Japan. I'll always remember the young woman I saw years ago at Koryū-ji, moving about with deliberate slowness as she quietly shot her photos. I was impressed to see so many women traveling alone out here in Kumano, though I wonder if they lose confidence when coming upon Ogin Jizo, dedicated to a Kyoto geisha killed by brigands. An hour after meeting the second woman, we came across another anomaly: a Frenchman sprawling across the trail, writing in his journal.
It was a delight to get on the trail early, to move across a forest floor dappled with light. We followed a stream for much of the morning, crossing bridges covered with moss. A long climb brought us to Mikoshi Pass and its rest hut. Along the way, we saw a deer at Yukawa, grazing lazily up the slope above the shrine, obviously unafraid of humans.
By late morning we arrived at Funatama, and its long boat with a figure of Jizo carved into the prow. Signs warned us off camping here, as it is apparently overrun with vipers. (While wondering if this were a ploy, I was simultaneously bitten by seventeen of the loathsome creatures and expired on the spot. Much better now.) Since dropping down this side of the pass, Mie welcomed us with a variety of signs commanding us to refrain from this or that. Far from the welcome feeling of yesterday.
We climbed up to Hosshin. Our passage through the gate a symbolic step into deeper realms of the spirit. We lunched here, smiling as the Frenchman passed by, in conversation with the woman walker we'd seen, neither no longer solo.
The next descent was through a series of villages and galleries selling veggies and wood carvings. One stretch of homes had wooden dummies lining the route, as if the locals were watching the tourists file past on parade. The tourists were indeed out in great numbers, as they'd take the bus up to Hosshin and follow the gentle slope for an hour and a half down to Hongu. The final reaches were almost anti-climactic, moving through a series of square, squat suburban homes out of the Ike years. Yet the actual arrival at Hongu changed that. Clapping my hands before the shrine, I felt happy, at peace. After years of trying to get to the Nakahechi, my feet had finally led me along this inner, mountainous passage of the Kōdō, the missing link of my now complete traverse between Kyoto and Shingu.
Kumano Hongu was quiet, having changed little since my 2005 visit, the same long steps, the same squat buildings rising from the gravel. One addition was the small stand selling kitschy character trinkets, including items of the JFA who'd adopted Kumano's three-legged crow as mascot. (For the next three days, any time I'd see a crow, my eyes would automatically check for that third leg.)
As on my last visit here, I sat near the base of the steps, eating ice cream and people watching. Both of my previous visits here had been during Golden Week, and today, the place was reasonably quiet. I smiled at my good luck with timing as three buses suddenly puled up to disgorge a large group of women, the older ones wearing sensible shoes, the younger looking like foals on those steps in their heels.
Out front on the new access road, we tried to hitch back to Tanabe, but without luck. I mimicked the facial expressions of the drivers as they passed, pretending not to notice us. On the bus later, I stretched out my tired feet along the back seat and read for the entire two hours back to town. There were a few other hikers on board, looking weary but rewarded. A group of school kids had gotten on at one point, peeling off into little groups as we edged toward town...
On the turntable: "The Rough Guide to Cuban Son"
On the nighttable: Aurobindo, "More Lights on Yoga"
09/09/09
We crossed the Tonda River, marking the barrier of the Land of the Dead. And the monocultural sugi forest through which we climbed was devoid of any life; no birdsong, no scampering insects.
We'd gotten a late start. On the bus along the way, my eyes had traced the route I'd walked back in '03, a year after my son had died. (Prior to setting out that year, my son's mother was certain that I would find happiness in dying out there, amongst the mysterious peaks of Omine. I'm sure she'd been right.) I remembered crossing that high suspension bridge, and the almost magical wave of sorrow that had overtaken me at Fudaiji Temple. Where last time I'd been turned back by lack of food, today Miki and I fared better. After buying big onigiri from a very genki couple near the trail head, we passed through a narrow opening in the rock representing the Womb. Officially within the mandala now, we moved up and up.
This trail was harder than I'd thought, sure to turn off a large number of tourists. I wondered if anyone has died up here, after the publicity explosion in the wake of the UNESCO status, expecting an easy day out and getting caught unprepared. There are certainly sections that would terrify anyone, the trail clinging to forested walls dropping off sheerly into cedars.
We came to Takahara Kumano Jinja, surrounded by ancient and immense kusanoki trees. One had three trunks rising out of an an enormous trunk base. Nearby was a small village, the first of many we'd come to here on the Nakahechi. (Had I pushed on six years ago, I wouldn't have been more than two hours away from food, despite what I'd heard from locals.) Each of the homes had a spectacular view of the mountains rising across the valley, the autumn sky above striated with cloud. I find myself strongly drawn to the peaks of this region, and all the lore that they contain.
At a rest stop here, an unfriendly group of middle-aged hikers was just finishing lunch, some of their women reapplying fresh make-up. We hurried to get out in front of them, climbing from the village, past a small A-framed structure rotting slowly into forest. On the ridge above was the lovely Koban Jizo, marking the place where a holy man had fallen. Above him was a spacious clearing where we stopped for lunch, near an impressively green toilet with recycled water. Leaving this ridge, we found a man dozing on the trail, and on two occasions ran into a single woman hiker.
We dropped fast then, to meet the highway and a small rest area. A guide told us that the hiking group we'd seen earlier had taken an overnight ferry from Kyushu, would hike half the trail, then return by another night boat this evening. Express-lane pilgrimage.
Climbing up again, we startled a large viper with bright yellow head. He was pointed toward Gyuba Ōji, an impressive stone figure standing in perpetuity amidst a grove of tall cypress. On the same mound were diminutive figures of En no Gyoja, Jizo, and Fudo. This was like a personal Buddhist greatest hits package, my three faves pow-wowing together. There was an unmistakable feeling of peace here, and the idea of having to leave was an agony. After a long while, we finally got the feet in motion again.
The trail dropped into Chikatsuyu village, laid out across a wide valley. I slightly bemoaned the fact that we weren't planning to stay out here, to stroll her narrow lanes after dark and swim in her rivers. A foreign woman drove past, her car bearing those familiar beginner's stickers. This mere glance was all I needed to guess her story. She'd be the only foreign face in town, a recent arrival judging by the sticker. She'd go into Tanabe to party with the other JETs. I've seen her story played out dozens of times, in the lives of friends back in the 'Nog, most long departed. And it made me instantaneously miss the community I'd had back there, and made me face up to the fact that, in a matter of weeks, I too would be gone.
We moved up again, along a road that hung high above the valley. I was well into the rhythm of the hike now, loving the scenery, the remote feel. Tsugizakura completed this sense of wonder, its stone steps rising between trunks centuries old. One elder was hollowed out with enough space to shelter a VW, and may have been standing here when the very first Kumano pilgrim strolled by over a millennium ago. Close by was a beautiful example of the classic Japanese farmhouse, hanging onto the face of the hill. I longed to pass a quiet night here. A bit further on, another farmhouse clung similarly to the slope, its roof long given away to the effects of gravity. My eyes strayed to a handful of graves on the hill behind, and I felt pity for those ancestors who, now that their homestead had been abandoned, will also fade into the forest and out of living memory.
We reached Kobiro Ōji, and then the main road. Clouds were starting to come over the ridge in strange formations, as if heralding the coming of autumn. We had a bizarre moment where our out-stretched thumbs simultaneously pulled over two cars. We jumped into the closest, squeezing in with three young women. The driver commented on the clouds, saying that this kind usually precede earthquakes. And we drove further west, toward a sky a color more like New Mexico than anything I'd ever seen here...
On the turntable: Eric Clapton and Duane Allman, "Studio Jams"
