Crossing

 

It takes some time getting to Chikubujima. You first must take a train up to Biwa's narrow northern shoulder, eternally bullied by the brawny peaks of Hirasan above. A boat will then take you to the island. On approach it looks in decay, centuries of guano having stripped many of the trees and eroded the slopes. Just off the boat, a photographer snipes you paparazzi style, then later will try to bilk you of 1000 yen. A flight of very steep steps begin here, leading up to the main grounds. Our group of five detoured first to the shrine. Along the way, a couple of smaller shrines hug the islands ridges, one to the white snake god (which I now know is a manifestation of Benzaiten/Benten) and another to the black dragon god of rain. It is easy to imagine the latter, rolling slowly across the waters of the lake, to wreak fury on the islanders who'd chosen to live in the middle of one of the oldest lakes in the world. No one lives there now, except for a handful of priests. One of them sold religious trinkets in a small structure that seemed to defy gravity. For a couple hundred yen you could buy two small disks, write prayers on them, then fling them sidearm through the torii arch out on a rocky promontory below. 

 

We wandered down a small path to find a cluster of buildings that offered the required view and place to sit. Lunchtime. Above us, cormorants played gargoyle in the bare trees. Now and again a hawk would cruise by, eyeing our food but acting cool about it. We followed the trail a bit more down to the water, where we found what had probably been an old boat launch. Compared to the busy port on the other side of the island, this was very low tech with a mere two pieces of rope. I wonder how many monks escaped at night, to row over to mainland bars and brothels. 

 

We walked back through the shrine and up to the Buddhist buildings above. There used to be more of a fusion here, but now the two religions have been sent to their neutral corners. The buildings are amongst the most beautiful I've ever seen, with gorgeous curved roofs, faded wood, and detailed animal carvings. Hōgonji's main hall elicits respect as it climbs skyward above the trees. Among other things, there is a carving of En-no-Gyōja here (though under a different name), a long hall built from the wood of Hideyoshi's boat, and Kannon statues showing her in all her various manifestations, as if it were Oscar night. Plus the obligatory statue of Kobo Daishi standing proudly overlooking all.

 

I stop by the noykojo and get my last stamp of the Saikoku Kannon 33 Temple pilgrimage. I'm quiet for a while after this, and I'm not sure why. When I started this pilgrimage in June 2002, I did it for my former father-in-law, then diagnosed with stomach cancer. I'm not much of a prayer, but I wanted to dedicate the spirit of my efforts to him and his fight. Little did I know I'd lose my own son four months later, then my father-in-law three months to the day after that. I suppose my quiet today is due to their being with me as I closed this sacred circle. 

 

As we make our way back down to the boats, dragonflies swirl above us, appropriate to an island where the spirits of the dead are reputed to live. The ride back is cooler, the humidity and clouds of the morning burned off, the sky rich and blue, the details of the surrounding peaks vivid. A short walk off the ferry in Omi Imazu we find a quiet stretch of beach and baptize ourselves in the waters of the lake. Later, back in Kyoto, we'll take sacrament in the form of pizza and beer...

 

 

On the turntable: Chet Baker, "Boppin'"

 

Let Me Get Back to the Sea IV

The train was the first of the day, and it led me west along the coast. One beach lined a crescent shaped cove, but the ends had been lopped off and concreted. A beautiful old wooden station had lost its view of rice fields and forest to a five meter high pile of dirt upon which a questionably necessary bypass will be plonked. Two stations further on, a simply immense television drones on to an empty parking lot. It was fast becoming a depressing morning. I am glad to see a bit of the countryside before the central government completely fucks it up.

I got off the train at a small rural station where the only sign on life was a cat sleeping on the wooden rail where the ticket taker usually is. (Shape shifter?) I walked to the main road and was able to hitch a lift up to Matsunoodera, a lovely old temple with 1300 years of history present in its statuary. It was deserted but for a lone man busy at work on new carvings. The radio at his feet kept him up with the baseball at Koshien.

I got my nokyo stamped, number 31 on my Saikoku Kannon pilgrimage. On the road back down the mountain, I passed a trio of monkeys, the male seemingly upset with me about something. Not a single car passed on this quiet road, and even on the busier highway below it took about 45 minutes to get a ride. A Nagoya family were on their way to the beach, but the weather had other plans. The sea and rivers that we passed were the color of mud, with all sorts of flotsum bobbing along the shore. We passed through Maizuru, such a lovely name, for such an ugly town. Along the way, I dropped quite a few hints to my driver about how nice the view was from above Amanohashidate, which was a short walk from my destination of Nariaiji. They didn't bite, and I eventually found myself at the station. I'd wanted to use a boat, cable car, and bus to get up to the temple, but the rain had caused a landslide and the cable car wasn't running. There was a road up from the other side, but I needed a car to get there. A taxi was my option. For 31 temples, this was the only time on this pilgrimage that I compromised on one. Throughout the ride I was kicking myself because I'd forgotten my nokyo when I came this way last year. An oversight costly in time and money. This road too had seen many slides, with road teams pushing dirt and rocks into the streams below.

At the temple, I paid my third visit to Nariaiji, but was disgusted that they'd started charging admission, which must have helped fund an ugly new pagoda that rose from beside the parking area. Amanohashidate was hardly visible with the mist, which rose to veil the surrounding peaks. I started the long walk down , passing the odd jizo on the way. I stepped over fist-sized stones which had come down during the night, above swift streams running white and brown. Fresh landslides gave my mind something new to ponder. A few cars passed, but none stopped. I thought this ironic as they'd all been returning from a visit to a temple dedicated to the Goddess of Compassion.

A minute after arriving at the main road I was picked up by a man who had seemingly made a U-turn to do so. A retired salesman, he'd driven this region for decades, and now did little more than fish. Seemingly lonely, he was really enthusiastic about me joining him for a visit up to Ine, a lovely little village that I'd visited with Miki last year. He then changed tactics, wanting me to stay here in town and drink with him and his friend. It took some doing, but I finally got him to drop me at the station.

The rain and floods had fouled the train schedules. (Arriving home I found that it had been a typhoon which had killed 13.) I finally made my way south toward home, through valleys so wet and cold that the train windows fogged, and our arrival time grew more and more distant.

On the turntable: The The, "Dusk"

Pilgrims Excess

And here is where the Kannon Pilgrimage ends, at Kegonji, where the country's wide midriff expands away from her mountainous spine. It was an easy walk up here, along a wide shaded lane lined with souvenir shops. The temple buildings are spread out along the hillside. One small hall is filled with pilgrim's paraphernalia. Abandoned nokyo, staffs, shirts, and conical hats are stacked up from floor to rafter. There is a distinctive sense of finality here, though not for me. I am three temples short: two on the Sea of Japan (which I'll combine with a summertime swim) and the third located on Chikubushima at the center of Lake Biwa. The adjacent hall is filled with Jizo and prayers for healthy children. Behind the Hondo is another stone Jizo covered with little strips of paper affixed to the ailing part of the petitioner's body. Among the buildings higher up are a set of especially well-endowed tanuki, beyond which is a waterfall. Coming back around the pond that this water feeds, I'm surprised to come across the Tokai Shizen Hodo. This is the branch that heads over to Mt. Takao in Saitama, different from the section that Miki and I are doing at the moment. I imagine I'll follow my own footsteps here sometime. Back to the Hondo to watch people finish their pilgrimage. I'm overwhelmed by a feeling of not having graduated, with summer school still ahead. I see a group of these women 'graduates' fondle a metal fish affixed to a post. One of these laughing women then hugs a tree in the courtyard.

I move back along the main street that marks the temple's easy approach. It was a long way up here and will be a long way back. I think about hitching but decide instead to honor my unofficial non-finish to the pilgrimage by taking it slow. I sit in the sun, enjoy the country, wait for the bus. On the way back I learn that rice balls eaten on a rattly old bus will literally be shaken apart. I next ride a slow single car train along a straight line of track. It hits me that I've come full circle here. During my first Golden Week in 1995, I rode a train like this to the swordmaking town of Seki, also here in Gifu. Today there are only four of us aboard. I watch an old woman apply makeup as the train shakes and rattles. This is funny since it is women of her generation who tend to complain about young girls doing this exact same thing, in apparent disregard for the social distinction between what is public and what is private. At the other end of a car a man flosses his teeth with great exuberance. I smile, until I remember that I've just finished a bag of Oreos, and suddenly want to borrow a strand. (I bought the cookies at a small shop near the station which had near empty shelves. There was no one around, and when I called out to the back, a dog trotted out to sit behind the register.)

I'm getting close to home and notice that it's not yet 2pm. I see the familiar shape of Mikami-san, which I've often noticed from the west side of Lake Biwa. It is known locally as Omi Fuji, though I think it looks more like a breast, lifting impressively from Shiga's flat belly. Deciding suddenly to climb, I jump off the train and try to hitch to the trailhead. It again takes awhile, but I get a lift from a woman in a white uniform. I ask if she's a nurse but she tells me that no, she's ------- some word I don't know in Japanese. She next mentions that she'd seen me earlier while at the bank. This being the last business day before the long holidays, I assume she'd made a withdrawal. I want to tell her that she probably shouldn't tell a complete stranger that she's flush with cash. Turning my head, I now notice that her white uniform, whatever it is, is flecked with blood. Maybe I'm the one who should be worried. Is there the body of another hitcher in her trunk?

She drops me at the trailhead and I begin. As this breast is rather pert, the ascent is swift and steep. Partway up is an old temple, decaying into the weeds. Further on I find a narrow gap through some large rocks, a significant hint that this mountain is used by yamabushi in their training. I squeeze through, then use chains to pull myself up a steep exposed face. One root sticks straight up, the end brown and lacquered with oil from the hands of hikers looking for a grip. There are nice views from the top, ringed with the shapes of mountains now familiar. A couple of men sit at the top, drinking beer. We talk awhile, about other climbs in the area. Then I make my way down a very fast descent. Where it levels out some, I try to overtake a guy moving slowly, but he doesn't seem to want me to pass. I've never experienced this kind of bad hiking etiquette before. Matching his pace, I'm forced to take small steps, which doesn't go over well with my knees. I finally pass him, then hitch a quick lift to the station.

Back in Kyoto, I meet up with Michael at Sarasa Kayukoji, to watch Sweet Strings play. (His review, and subsequent video, is here.) The food is good, the beer forthcoming. The band is fun and very talented. There is a lego affect at work, adding a new member to the ensemble with each subsequent song. They play this great Hawaiian Dixieland bluegrass pre-war jazz. Sometimes it sounds like music from old Warner Bros. cartoons. The crowd is into it, bobbing their heads in various rhythms. The energy of the room builds with their collective drunkenness. It makes a great start to the long holiday period, though I get home far later than expected. I've got an early train to Tokyo tomorrow...

On the turntable: Hugh Masekela, "The African Connection"

On the nighttable: Issai Chozanshi, "The Demon's Sermon on the Martial Arts"

On the reel table: "My Night at Mauds" (Rohmer, 1969)

Mysteries without any Clues

The train takes me to a bus, the bus to some steps. I'm far out of Omi Hachiman now, the bus having let out all the school kids much earlier. I find the steps that lead up to Chomeiji, number 31 on the Kannon circuit.. They're old and weathered, and I wonder how an elderly person makes their way up here. With great faith, no doubt. It's a beautiful morning and I have the steps and the forest to myself. I'm pretty sweaty by the time I reach the top, despite it being 8:30 on an April morning. The temple too is pretty quiet, except for a couple of pilgrims chanting before the main altar. The thatch roofs on all the buildings lend a further organic touch to the scenery. I get my nokyo signed, then wander the paths up and around the boulders that dwarf the buildings standing before them. I climb up one high stone near the temple's furthest reaches and enjoy the morning sun awhile. Biwa stretches away from my feet toward the high jagged mountains marking Nara prefecture. A tourist boat slices a white wake through the Lake's still water.

Back down at the road, I hitch a ride easily, from a young Osaka couple coming back from pre-dawn fishing. I'm not sure where I'm going exactly, so ask them to drop me at 7-11 so I can look at maps. I walk toward the unmistakable shape of a temple roof. Reaching it, I quickly realize it's the wrong one. It looks abandoned, with empty milk bottles stacked at the main gate, trash strewn everywhere. At the entrance, shoes look to have been kicked off, next to a wheelchair that lays on its side. I feel I don't belong here, and move on quickly. The temple I'm looking for is a block over. The doors are closed, but the chanting wafts through, like some ghostly noh chorus. Out back I find a marker for the Chosenjin Kaido, so called because it was the main corridor along which Korean delegations made their way to Edo. My goal is to follow this road for 30 km to Hikone, with a quick detour up to Kannonshoji, temple number 32. At first following this road seems easy, as the street is paved a different color, and there are frequent signs. But just beyond a collection of preserved historic buildings, the signs disappear completely. I move along what I think is the path. A guy in wheelchair passes, shadowed by his friend on a bike. From behind high walls I hear the sound of school kids, the boys playing baseball and the girls practicing some choreographed routine. During this walk, I stop whenever I find a combini, to check maps and confirm where I am. The more obscure I get in my wanderings, the poorer the trails are marked. This path is the worst I've yet encountered. There's a sign merely every 2 or 3 km. You can't just draw a line across a map and call it a trail; you need to mark it. And my book is no help either. I spend too much time trying to read the mind of the mapmaker. I look for jizo and shrines to ensure I'm true.

An old farmer I ask points over at an adjacent road and lets me cross his field to get there. Country people always know the old roads, a far cry from the suburbanites who rarely if ever know what I'm talking about. I come across a row of these moneyed dollhouses, passing a group of young dolls getting into a pair of trendy cars. Sure enough, I'm near a station, Azuchi, which is where I'll peel off toward Kannonshoji, which must be in those mountains over there. I try to hitch. The cars just pour by. One woman comes to a near full stop, looks me over, and tears away. I'm tempted to shout, Get a Life!, but I notice that that's the make of the car she's driving. I seem to have a tough time getting rides in this prefecture, inevitably getting lifts from traveling Osakans. I begin to question the character of Shiga's people, my generalizations getting grander and grander until I'm picked up by a kind woman from just around the corner.

I move up more wild, unevenly spaced steps. This is harder going than I had thought. I stop partway up, thinking how I rarely take breaks when traveling alone. Along the way, the temple has created 33 stages, each one with its own pithy expression. Breathing hard, I arrive at the top, , to a handful of new buildings in a large open space. There had been a fire here a few years back, which explains why nothing matches my guidebook. I find a perch and watch a shinkansen roll across the plain far below, a bizarre white snake moving oddly, quickly along straight lines.

In the parking lot, I hitch a ride back to Azuchi. The outskirts of town are zigzagged by canals. Beside one is a small park marking the site of a former seminary. Black-clad Christians are having some sort of picnic. Further out are some crazy buildings, like a mosque, a church. Azuchi castle ruins are on the hill above me, with wide ruined steps like the ones at the beginning of Kurosawa's "Hidden Fortress." Much later, I take a rest beside a single small jizo under some trees. Near temples, there are often clusters of jizo, dedicated to pilgrims who died within the walls. This guy is all alone out here, and I wonder who he was. I watch a waterwheel turning, then continue with my own samsara.

I pass through little towns lined with buildings hundreds of years old. Many of these lose their quaint character with their bizarre looking train stations, shaped like UFOs. One town has annoying cheerful Stepford Wives muzak piped in. This varnish can't hide the town's secrets, betrayed in the form of a tall transvestite making her way toward a train.

I leave the side roads finally and find myself on a busy highway. My map shows nothing of interest for a while, and the traffic and pachinko parlors don't thrill much. I hitch a lift, giving the weird destination of 'that big hill up ahead.' This is the genkiest driver I've ever ridden with. His techno music is an interesting diversion from the snail pace of the day. He didn't seem to want me to go, offering to take me further, further. I eventually escape and walk over to a shrine marked by a limp rope. Silence again. But someone in the next village is playing piano, and ten minutes later, I hear sexy sax music in a greenhouse. The music, and my fatigue, are welcome because I finally get that damned Bob Seger song out of my head, which has been on repeat for about three hours. Ain't it strange how the mind moves, with summer closin' in. I walk beside a field of barley, backlit with gold, softly moving in the wind with such a nice sound that I wanna nap on top of it. But I have more zigzagging to do. After an hour, I eventually come to that long highway again, up which I extend my thumb. My next destination is even more bizarre than the last: "I wanna go to the second signal beyond the big river." The driver is a nice kid who once hitched around the Phillipines. I get out to walk the last half-hour. It's a nice way to finish the day, with the sun setting over the keep of Hikone castle, then later melting into Hira-san's right shoulder. I melt with it, but wonder if today's course was really worth it...

On the turntable: Kraftwerk, "The Mix"

On the nighttable: Brad Warner, Zen Wrapped in Karma Dipped in Chocolate"

Thirty-three Thumbs

The guy on the train had a T-shirt which read, "Drink and Powders and Pills." Whatever it takes to keep you standing on a train this early on a weekend morning. It was just before seven, and all the passengers were in differing states of sleepiness. Most were starting their day, but for a some, it was just ending. A couple hosts had hair sticking out in that perpetual bed-head look, in spite of having not slept.

I was heading south to continue the Saikoku Kannon Pilgimage. Back in June 2002, I'd spent about 10 days hitching around the Kansai countryside visiting temples. A true pilgrimage deserves some hardship, so I chose to do some on foot, and the rest by thumb, bypassing public transportation except when going to and from the pilgrimage route itself. At that time, I'd visited 24 of the 33 on the pilgrimage (plus the 3 extra "bangai" temples), and today I hoped to visit the three that were clustered around Wakayama city. Unfortunately they were well spread out across the prefecture.

In Osaka, I boarded a train heading out toward Kansai airport. About a half dozen skaters were lounging in the priority seat at one end of my car, two of them sleeping and sprawled across the benches with their shoes off, another was busy texting. One guy in headphones was doing some sort of hip hop neck exercises. (Not far removed, I thought, from the old timers I'd seen earlier, doing radio taiso under a massive tree in some suburban park). These guys were young but must have been really dedicated, to be up this early. Two of the boys looked like they were still in elementary school.

After two hours of trains, I had another hour to go by bus, leaving from some town I'd never heard of. There were a few people aboard with backpacks, obviously heading into the same hills as I was. The bus let me out at the busy end of a small country road which weaved between small shops and large country homes. Quite a number of cars were heading my way and almost without thinking I thumbed one. They were only going part way up the mountain, planning to pick wild veggies beside the river. I asked about all the fallen trees, thinking it must have been one hard winter. No, there was a new dam going up. Here in such a lovely valley with little apparent need for one.

At the trailhead, I said goodbye, and made my way up. I guess a tour bus had just arrived, since I soon became part of a group of twenty or so people moving up the cobblestones. I strode past them pretty quickly to regain solitude. It was beautiful here, the stone trail following a creek up the considerably steep steps. There were a number of small subtemples along way, where I'd stop and pray. One roof had high flowering weeds growing from the thatch. Another was in terrible shape, covered with a tarp and looking like a white and brown mushroom. (It was called the Yamato Hall, and I'll let you come up with your own cynical subtext.) Finally I arrived at the main hall of Makinoodera. A priest with very bushy eyebrows brushed kanji in my nōkyō, the book that serves as a record of the pilgrimage. There was a group who I decided were bus pilgrims, based on their loud voices and poor choice of shoes. The sheer racket they were making at first annoyed me, but in looking over at them, I noticed a part of the temple grounds I otherwise would have missed. There was a set of "Buddha's footprints" in front of a tall stele, surrounded by a series of 33 stones, which if trod upon, allowed one to do this entire Kannon Pilgrimage in symbolic miniature. How convenient for the bus tourists, I thought.

I lingered up top awhile, looking across a series of hills just coming into their spring colors. Then I headed down toward the road again. Hitched back to the bus stop, then sat to think a while. There was a temple due south of me, just on the other side of this range of mountains. I knew a road headed through them, but didn't know how well trafficked it was. I could easily get stuck out there somewhere. Finally I decided that there was no real risk of danger and that I'd let fate dictate the rules of the day. I set off in the that direction. A few cars passed me as I moved through the village, though none stopped. I turned onto a busier road and moved up a steep hill. A van stopped. I told him that he could let me off a couple km ahead, at the junction of the road heading south. He knew this area well and was pretty sure I'd get stuck, but respected my choice. Alternately, he was heading into Wakayama city, where the third of today's prospective temples was. He thought I'd be better off going there first, then hitching back into the countryside again. I accepted. So we spent the next hour together, this man and I and his 4 year old son. They'd spent the night at the father's ancestral home in the country, and were now heading to a park near their Wakayama. I had a nice chat with the dad about those things you come up with in your role as guest. The boy sang a song for most of the drive, making it up as we rolled along. He later caught me up on Ultraman's latest foes. As we neared Wakayama Station, the dad asked the boy if he'd mind taking me all the way to the temple before going on to the park. The boy said he wanted to go to the park right away. Fair enough. Let fate dictate the rules of the day

So I found myself in the center of the city, nine km from my destination. Figuring I had no choice, I checked on train times, but they only ran every half hour. I decided to try to hitch, though pretty certain from past experiences that no one stops in the middle of a city. I'd walk in the direction of the next station and if I couldn't get a ride, I'd take the train. Unbelievably a car pulled out of traffic and stopped immediately. He wasn't going my way, but I became inspired. A minute later, a woman stopped. She turned off the main road so as to avoid the traffic. She also wanted to drop off some cakes at home. (When buying cakes in Japan, they always ask if you'll eat them within a half hour.) This complete stranger left me alone in her car for a few minutes, engine running, then came back to weave through the backstreets toward Kimiidera.

There was a lot more activity here, and despite being on the outskirts of the city, it had all the feel of a temple village, with hotels and restaurants lining a single wide street. It looked more like China than Japan. I climbed yet another flight of stairs, though not nearly as high as the mountainous Makinoodera. This had probably been a beautiful place prior to the arrival of concrete. At the main hall was another group of pilgrims, though this time dressed in identical white and chanting sutras. This is how it should be done. Approaching a monk with my nōkyō, my face fell when I saw that he had a stack of around 50 in front of him, all belonging to the sutra-chanters. Luckily, he quickly dashed off mine. I wandered up to a small hall higher on the hill. Over the entrance was a carved wooden pigeon, and just below it, the floor was littered with bits of broken seeds and scat. Strangley, I saw no real birds. I moved across the grounds toward a massive concrete tower. Inside was a three story high Kannon statue, all done up in fake-looking gaudy gold. I could see no real purpose for this, other than as a way to use untaxed revenue. The real value was in the view from the top deck. It would've been a fantastic view were it not for the line of high buildings in the foreground. So I raised my eyes to take in the fields stretching away toward the sea, and the jagged line of mountains beyond. The color of the sky and of the bleached out buildings gave everything a real sea-side feel. I made my way down the steps again, thinking that the next time a person asks me why I'm doing this pilgrimage, I'll answer that it's because I love stairs.

I thought about hitching toward the next temple, but it was well out in the countryside and I had no idea which road or direction to take. I hoped to get picked up by someone else doing this pilgrimage, as it came next in the traditional order. It took some effort but I caught a ride. Ironically, this driver, and the cake woman earlier, were both the wives of priests. This ride too stopped along the way, to pick up her son at cram school. Beside me in the backseat was a friendly young woman who'd just started dental school. (In more irony, the very next ride I'd hitch, albeit a week later, would himself be a dentist.) Like the two earlier rides, they asked me if I had food. Very kind, the people around here. They were bound for Wakayama Station, so I went along, compromising on my rule by taking a slow train out toward Kokawadera.

At the top of town, two huge trees marked the main gate. Beyond them, subtemples spread out along a creek, with a few Buddhas and graves along the path. It was wide and open here, like an old West town, all dust and sun. There was a merciful lack of steps. One small hall looked abandoned, the earthen wall challenging the roof tiles in a race toward complete decay. In the main courtyard was an unusual dry rock garden, climbing up a small rise toward the Hondo. In true Western movie fashion, the wind picked up some, causing a rack of wooden ema to clack together beside the main altar. The floor before the principle carved Buddha was worn away and warping due to centuries of praying pilgrims. To the side was a trail leading up to an ascetic's hut. On my way up, a large bee circled me three times, then flew off. The hut is closed but for a small slit in which to slide food and offerings. Beyond it, a path leads away through the forest, the floor worn smooth but veined with tree roots. I followed a different trail to a small subtemple hidden above the Hondo's right shoulder. It looked abandoned, but surprisingly, I was allowed to enter and was given a brief tour by a very old woman. I sat for a while overlooking the garden, and at the borrowed scenery that the woman had told me was slowly disappearing behind high bamboo growing in the valley below. What had once been pines had now been replaced by a grove of fruit trees. In a decade, the peaks of the Izumi Range themselves will no longer be seen. I walked back into the temple and headed toward a couple of attached halls. One contained a beautiful ancient Kannon, and it was difficult to turn away from a face radiating such peace. Above, a tapestry of a once-colorful lotus was peeling off the ceiling. I continued walking along the old crumbling decrepit hallways, the wood complaining under my feet. I've never seen a temple in such an obvious state of disarray. But it was gorgeous, the textbook definition of mono-no-aware.

Walking back down through town, toward a mountainscape of houses climbing the hills, partial hidden by forests dotted pink with yamazakura. The foreground too was an almost alpine scene, between two rows of buildings of equal height. At the bottom, I came to my last destination of the day, the Yamato Kaido. Originating as the Nara kaido back in the 6th Century, this route had taken on many names and had been much extended over the centuries. The section I'd follow would shadow the Kiinokawa for 11 km. It was well marked and easy to find. I spend the remaining few hours of daylight walking though quiet villages and fields mostly barren. There were many shrines along this way, synonomous with very early settlement. One shrine had a set of unswept, leaf strewn steps. There were many farmers finishing their work of the day, prodding the earth back to action. One village smelled strongly of citrus. Somewhere past the mikan, I had this exchange:

A group of boys are playing and one yells "Are wa gaijin da!" I check to make sure my horns aren't showing, then respond with, "Are wa nihonjin da!" One of the kids says, "Doko?" The boy who originally yelled says, "Ore wa, Nihonjin da yo." Didn't detract from my day, but things like this help justify my leaving Japan. (One blogger I read cynically calls this type of soft racism, "Death by a thousand cuts.)

The spaces between the homes began to fill with other homes. Just over the river, I walked down a one-street town, many people chatting outside and enjoying the last heat of the day. Over the broad Kiinokawa next, and to the train platform, open and facing the yellowing sky. This had been one long day, zigzagging around the Izumi region of Wakayama and I was weary. I closed my eyes and tried not to think about the hours and trains I'd need to get home...

On the turntable: John Coltrane, "Live Trane Underground"

On the nighttable: Brad warner, "Sit Down and Shut Up"

On the reel table: "Kill!" (Okamoto, 1968)

Year-end in Review 5

Any warm sunny day this time of year should be considered a gift, even if that gift will eventually come with a heavy pricetag. And December had warm sunny days aplenty.

On one Saturday, Miki and I decided to do part of the Kansai 33 Temple Kannon pilgrimage. I'd done 24 of the 33 temples in June, 2002, a time that I consider to be amongst my most memorable in Japan. During the day, I'd wander the countryside, hitching from temple to temple, then head back into one of the three major Kansai cities to watch a World Cup soccer match with friends over beers. I'd also found time to visit a few aikido dojos and for some Zen training in my favorite temple. That summer, there was one segment I didn't do, the long haul over the mountains from Daigo to Ishiyama dera.

We got to Daigo early. Due to the ongoing construction, we forewent the temple's lower gardens and structures, and went straight up the mountain. The leaves were still in color, and the long flights of stone were littered with the first of their suicidal numbers. We eventually came to Daigo-ji's upper reaches, with fantastic wooden statuary and incense smoke hovering in the cold shadows. It had been a long ascent, so we sat in the sun drinking lukewarm tea and eating bread. The trail dropped straight down the opposite side of the mountain, but we got sidetracked by a smaller trail leading to Daigo-ji's deepest reaches. At its end, we found a narrow cave with small pools of water around the altars. I shined my torch into the darkness beyond, but mysteriously, the battery gave out just then. After a brief prayer, we followed another side trail which led to a pile of boulders offering views of the valley below. I gazed over the mountains beyond, slightly uneasy. We had no maps and didn't know the direction or the distance involved. But a pilgrimage is all about trusting in the local gods. Our feet would do the rest.

The forest below was a patch of land beautiful and unmolested. A rickety old bridge crossed a brook which led us into the valley. It was warm and sunny again down here. An old woman was selling vegetables from a roadside stand. Miki chatted with her awhile as I moved some boxes she'd been struggling with. My reward was two mikan big as softballs. The valley was wide and pleasant, close to Kyoto yet feeling remote. At the far end, a path took us again into the hills, beneath low hanging bamboo trees and signs warning of poisonous vipers. We had lunch atop the ridge, washed our hands at a small shrine, asked directions of a couple of young potters who dressed and talked like gangsters.

The path led us into the afternoon. At its end we arrived at Ishiyama Temple. A woman noticed us in the courtyard and gasped. She'd seen us from a bus full of old women that had passed us hours ago. We wandered the temple grounds, up the hills to the hidden parts beyond. It was a wonderful place, but we slightly cheated it in being tired. We'd been amazed already today by Daigo-ji, and had walked 23km since then, up and down over four ridgelines. Exiting, we saw the sign saying the train station was yet another kilometer walk away. Groaning, we pushed on toward the train which would take us home.

On the turntable: Philip Glass, "Satyagraha"

On the nighttable: Jan Blensdorf, "My Name is Sei Shonagon"