On the Great Eastern Road X

 

 

The area around Yoshiwara station defines ugly, but for a single trendy-looking cafe.  Factory after factory after factory. I overtake a quartet of women kitted out for a long walk.  I chat briefly with them, a stutter-stop conversation that continues in morse-code fashion at a number of this town's copious traffic lights.  Then my stride lengthens and I don't see them again.     

Just past Hidari-Fuji, I am tempted to cut across the grounds of a factory that the road was forced to divert around at some point in the 20th century. Fuji is ever out on the horizon, streaked with white in its hair.   I've hit the road again just up the midpoint of December. It's a good time of year for long walks as the skies are the crisp blue of winter but the snows and the winds haven't moved in just yet
 
Yoshiwara proper is far more charming than its outskirts.  Pumped-in radio accompanies me as I move through its covered arcade.  Midway along I pass the broad window of the station itself, and by now I almost feel I know the DJ.  On one block, an apartment building has been built adjacent to the arcade, something I've never seen, and I think that the people on the ground floor must be hopeless optimists, as the sun will never reach the clothing they've hung on their verandas.  
 

This decent looking town drips with Showa flourishes, and is the most interesting thing I've seen on the Tōkaidō since leaving the main drag in Numazu.  There are any extraordinary number of bars of every sort, and business owners seem to have some sort of ethnic fetish, played out in the form of a Brazilian jiu-jitsu school, a place doing tacos, a place advertising itself as a Filipina bar.

Beyond town, Fuji gets clouded in, with the the inner views even more clouded in with suburb.  Smoke stacks rise between here and the sea, ever a-billow and I believe the scent they emit stayed in my nostrils for the rest of the day.
  How depressing to finally arrive at the base of one of the big factories and find it to be directly across from an elementary school.
 

I play peek a boot with Fuji all morning, down alleyways and popping up over the top of hospitals, until I cross Fujikawa bridge, named for the eponymous river running broadly below. From the Shinkansen bridge adjacent, this is usually the best (if not cliched) photo of Fuji that you'll take, and I know that this particular bridge upon which I am midway across has appeared in dozens of photos of my own.

I finally leave the major roads to head diagonally uphill. I imagine in times past this was all forest, but today it's nothing but suburb.  Before one of the houses is a dignified old guy sitting in the sun on his front stoop. I can't imagine that he grew up in this house, and was probably installed here by a son or a daughter. I try to imagine what his life was like,
 and what he thinks about it now.
 

I've been climbing steadily through the new homes. At the top of the rise, there's a bench, and from the bench, there's a view of the mountain dominating all. I sit for a while watching the winds blow snow off the peak, a big curl across the dome like a comb over.  The mountain keeps me company as I move along a quiet road that parallels the highway.   Up and over a hill now, I lose the mountain for the rest of the day. 

Kanbara lies down the opposite side, a lovely post town stretched between the hills and the sea.  My walk is punctuated by historical signs, including a lovely Taisho period dental clinic, and a small park marking the view that Hiroshige replicated in one of his best-known Tokaidō series prints.  

Yui post town is an hour further along.  The infamous Satta Pass looms at the far end.  I have just enough energy and daylight to make it over, but my walk would all be in shade, with the chill quickly coming on.  I decide to hop a train one stop forward to my inn at Okitsu.  

Okaya is the oldest extant inn along the Tōkaidō.  It further warms my heart in offering me a bottle of local craft beer to be enjoyed in the common sitting area.  At dinner, the only others I see are a group of Buddhist priests.  I want to engage them in conversation, but they are having a meeting of sorts.  I instead occupy myself with my meal and a local sake.  

 

 

The early morning train is full of drowsy schoolkids on their commute.  The climb up from Yui station is through a better-preserved section of the post town, a few buildings inviting me to pop in and have a look, an invitation revoked by doors shuttered due to the early hour.  But the road continues to accompany me, as I leave town and head into forest. 

The morning is sunny and bright, and I congratulate myself for timing chosen well.  What I took to be forest turns out to be a massive fruit orchard, mikan hanging over the trail like bright orange Christmas ornaments.   I turn every twenty steps or so to snap yet another photo of Fuji, dominating the land and seascape behind.  I almost regret the westbound direction of my footfalls, as to walk the other way would keep the mountain in view for close to an hour.  Yet perhaps walkers in olden days barely gave it any heed at they gingerly made their way what had been the most treacherous stretch of the entire Tokaidō.  Today, rather than the fall, you'd find more risk in getting hit by a car, speeding along one of the three roads blasted along the coastline below. 

I chat up a trio of grannies I find gossiping in the sun at the edge of Okitsu.  The town takes awhile to pass through, as I keep getting pulled into its remaining historic buildings.  The Zagyosō is masterpiece of Taisho architecture, with attractive Western flourishes, and windows glimmering in the generosity of today's sun.   Seikan-ji tops the hill above, built to protect the barrier gate built 1300 years before as a means of keeping the wild Emishi tribes at bay.  Shogun Tokugawa Ieyasu was educated here nearly a millennium later, and Korean envoys would overnight here on their way to meet the Shogun's descendants over the subsequent two centuries. 

The rest of the day must've been a slog, for as I write this, I notice I have no notes and only two photographs to cover the subsequent six hours.  The highlight would surely be the beer and burger lunch at Rainbow in Shimizu.  

What does stand out was the encroaching pain. A few years ago, I was stricken with brachial neuralgia, and as I moved along I began to note pain beginning to radiate from beneath the straps of my backpack.  I powered through to Shizuoka city, stopping for a long rest at a coffee shop on the outskirts.  Dinner too was equally long, trying a number of the intriguing beers at West Coast Brewing.  The pain greeted me upon awakening, and after an hour or so looking at alternate itineraries for the day, I finally convinced myself to simply walk the five minutes to the station and take a train home.  The old road had been here for thirteen centuries.  It'll keep...

 

On the turntable:  Terry Reid, "Super Lungs"

   

Walking the Iseji

 

A week on the Kumano Kodo Iseji, broken into four parts. Over at Heartland...

https://heartlandjapan.com/%e3%80%90vol-1%e3%80%91explore-kumano-kodo-iseji-guided-walk-the-pilgrimage-begins-at-ise-jingu-shrine/

https://heartlandjapan.com/%e3%80%90vol-2%e3%80%91explore-kumano-kodo-iseji-guided-walk-iconic-stone-steps-of-tsuzurato-magose-toge-passes/ 

https://heartlandjapan.com/%e3%80%90vol-3%e3%80%91explore-kumano-kodo-iseji-guided-walk-owase-and-conquering-the-rugged-yakiyama-toge-pass/

https://heartlandjapan.com/%e3%80%90vol-4%e3%80%91explore-kumano-kodo-iseji-guided-walk-seaside-beauty-from-matsumoto-toge-to-shingu/ 

 

On the turntable:  The Tubes, "Outside Inside"

 

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!" 

 

Kumano Kōdō XXV: Hongudō revisited...revisited

 

I've mentioned before how my friend Daniel and I had missed a great deal of the Hongudō during our walk in 2019, due to most signage being oriented from Ise-ji, against our flow. I returned later that summer to follow a pass over the lower reaches, though this time in the direction of the signs.  But those upper reaches continued to haunt.     

Armed this time with better maps, I greet my unwashed taxi driver, who picks me up in the dark of pre-dawn, and drops me just above the Sanwanotsuri Bridge an hour later.  As I climb from the vehicle, the driver tells me to take care.  Even in the modern age, townspeople maintain their superstitions about the mountains.  Not to say they're wrong.  

I tip the driver a thousand yen, since the poor guy had to rise so early to get me, and on a Sunday no less. And the mind to begins to spin games of chance, for we never really know the outcome of intersections of one's life.  Perhaps he'll use the 1000 yen to buy a few bottles of rotgut sake, and beat the wife around later.  Or maybe, he'll use it to play pachinko, which leads to even greater riches to come.   

The light is just beginning to enter the forest as I do, so I am hyper-aware of animals commuting home from the night-shift.  But the only beasties I encounter are the olfactory delights of swine awaiting their slaughter at the abattoir atop the hill, filling every inch of lung with each labored breath.  Plum blossoms fill the eye, hoof prints of deer in the dew below.  

Most of the day is spent on forestry road, punctuated by brief sections of rip-rap, and fallen-down homes.  I am certain that Daniel and I had missed this, had stayed on the main road below.  I do remember the bouldering field of Yuhi-ga-oka, the immense stones as high as three story buildings.  What follows is probably the longest section of forest trail, which drops steeply down what in the rain must be murder. Just beyond at Otani, I realize that we had previously gone really wrong here in 2019, following the forest road straight down to the highway.  But a smaller road twists upward again, past what must be the home of a trainer of hunting dogs, who bark aggressively in an aural version of The Wave.  

 

 Around a few corners, the signage keeps me on the road, but maps show a steep descent down into a broad, clear-cut valley.  I descend around the stumps and corpses of trees, until I notice my GPS indicating the trail is slightly above me to the left.  I scramble up, and meet the remnants of old trail that escorts me down to Route 311.    

It's a long road walk until a brief respite of forest leads me to the turn-off of  Maruyama Senmaida. I climb as the road switchbacks up to the handful of small souvenir stalls, and farmhouses, and a massive boulder.  I cut between the houses along a wonky rock path toward the top of the hill.  This is my third visit here, but the first in perfect weather.  It's over a month until the rice will be planted, but even the brownish fields are a marvel of geometry.  The landscape almost looks shattered.   

 

As I had already twice crossed Tōri-tōge, I stick to the road, ignoring signs telling me it is closed up ahead.  All is well until I come around a bend to encounter a massive landslide, with rows of truck tires stacked up to prevent encroachment.  As they are only waist high,  I am up and over, passing a handful of large diggers at rest within the landslide scar, then over the tires on the far side.  Thank god it's Sunday, and no one around to turn me back.    

I note a narrow road that leads me diagonally back toward the one of Senmaida's two bus stops.  I'd noticed earlier that the opposite end was marked with a sign for the Hongudō, and it is along this quiet forested road that I take my final steps.  Then my thumb takes over, gaining me a ride toward Kumano city, and my train, and enough time to yet again grab a Mosburger, an act that is becoming almost ceremonial at journey's end.

 

On the turntable:  The Police, "Synchronicity"  

  

Filling the Gaps along the Ise-ji V

 

I've forgone breakfast since I want to catch the first train of the day.  I'm backtracking a few days to recross Hajikami-tōge, taking this time the Meiji Road which I hear is more picturesque.  I munch bread and coffee as I await my train, winter's bite still in the air on this day in early March.  

The Meiji trail over the pass lives up to its reputation, and it gently leads me down to a long valley of farms sparkling in the morning sun.  I meet the road at the far end, close to an hour before my intended bus.  I throw out my thumb lackadaisically, but am soon picked by a nice old couple (and in Japan, it seems that it is only nice old couples who do the picking up).   They drive me all the way to Owase where I can catch a train back down the coast to rejoin the Ise-ji.  I walk down to Family Mart to grab a quick lunch, which I eat on yet another train platform.

 

I leave the train at Arii, where I finished up my walk of the Hongudō back in 2019.   I am led immediately across the highway and into the trees.  From the heights of yesterday, I could see these pines extend all the way down the coast, planted in earlier times as a wall to slow the encroach of future tsunami.  Breaking through the other side, I see that I am meant to walk a concrete berm which, although it allows me great views of the sea, is all I will get for hours.  Looking at my map I note a parallel path through the trees themselves, which though equally monotonous, will at least give me a softer surface on which to tread.  I decide to split the difference, and pick up the beach trail further on.  

The uniformity of features on the landscape soon has my mind spilling out all over the place, unbound by geography or temporality.  It goes on like this for 10 km.  One stretch has me up on my old frenemy R42 as it passes through Mihama and beneath it's towering boondoggle of the town office.  Any time the town office is far nicer than any other structure in town, you've got some politicos who have little regard for the needs of their constituents.

Ironically I'd stayed here a couple of nights before, at the rather bland Fairfield Hotel, though I'd enjoyed dinners at izakaya Benkei at the michi-no-eki next door.  Sadly, they aren't doing lunch today.  So I wrap behind the massive behemoth shopping center and follow the smaller road out of town, forced to rejoin R42 more than once.  There is little to hold my interest, and even the two historical landmarks that my map shows seem to have been swallowed by suburb.  (At this point I am ready to suggest to non-OCD walkers of the Ise-ji to give this whole Hamakaido section a pass.  Better to ride the train from Kumano to Shingu.)

Finally the trail leads me inland, climbing diagonally toward the forests above.  I hadn't expected a climb today, and am surprisingly more fatigued that expected, so I take a break at Yokote Enmei Jizo.  The path that follows is a nice wooded traverse along the upper edge of civilization, but all too soon I descend through a confusing spaghetti plate of overlapping roads and highways.  The weather had been so pleasant through the day, but a light rain wants to accompany me the rest of the way into Shingu.  Not sure why, as this stretch is fairly uninspiring, up until that bouncy iron suspension bridge that I remembered from my Kawatake-kaidō walk.  As on that day, the sky is dark as I enter the grounds of Hayatama Taisha, and I realize that I've approached this shrine from four different approaches.  But today brings completion as I've now walk every bit of the Kodō (except the Okugake, which leads to Hongu anyway).  Thus, the pilgrimage ends not with footfalls but with a pair of claps.

 

My accommodation for the night was chosen for its proximity to one of my favorite izakaya in Japan.  It's a guest house, which I usually avoid, but luckily I won't see or hear any of the other guests during my stay, their presence betrayed only by neatly aligned shoes.  I make my way to the izakaya, which I had booked ahead, telling them how happy I'd been on my last visit five years ago, and how much I was looking forward to seeing them again. Naturally, they had no idea who I was. 

Upon entry, I am surprised to see the extant of their renovation, and upon sitting, I realize I've got the wrong place.   I figure the proper thing to do is to order a beer, which I pound after I find my correct destination around the corner.  That owner does seem to remember me once I mention my last visit. And as on that visit, I double makase, letting him choose four dishes for me, and four types sake to pair them with.  We talk over the array of bottles that separate him from my counter seat, about my walks, and the history of the area.  As I leave long past closing, he gifts me a hand written pamphlet he's written on  Shingu.  Once again, Kumano has worked her magic on me, has me missing the hospitality of the countryside, has me wondering why the hell I am still living in Kyoto...

 

On the turntable:  "Everyone's Getting Involved: A Tribute to Talking Heads' Stop Making Sense"

 

Filling the Gaps along the Ise-ji IV

 

I linger over breakfast, not enthused about my upcoming day of five passes.  Luckily I've already down the Hōbō-toge, so I wait on the train platform with a handful of school kids heading toward more populous towns.  I debark in Nigishima, where I had intended to spend the night during my aborted walk through here back in December.  I really wanted to pass a night in this town that had once been a film set, but there had been red flags when I'd made that booking, mainly that I'd nearly had to beg to convince the owner to do a simple dinner for me, as there wasn't a single restaurant or shop in the village.  This time around Owase Seaside Hotel seemed (and proved) to be a more cozy alternative. 

All was quiet on this morning but for some fisherman offloading the morning catch.  The large concrete shell of the fish market is far bigger than their needs, a hint of a population base so diminished that they can no longer host what had once been a famous and lively festival here.  I rejoin the Ise-ji as it climbs steeply out of the village, literally through a house that is disappearing into the hillside.  Tiles from the bath jut from the earth like a set of teeth spilled in a vicious bar fight.  

 

 The ascent peaks out surprisingly soon, the trail continuing as a pleasant undulation through cedar forest.  The beach town vibe of Atashika seems a pleasant place to stay a night, especially if doing the walk in weather warm enough to swim.  But jeers to whomever decided to pave the steep trail climbing out of town.   The brief stretch of forested trail at the top leads me through the front garden of a pleasant woman hanging her laundry on a pleasant day, and past the coop of some rather raucous chickens.     

After a brief pop-in to Hadasu Jinja and its vast views, I drop drop drop down to the town proper.  Midway along I hide my bag in the trees for a quick detour over to Jofuku-no-Miya, dedicated to Chinese alchemist Xu Fu, who crossed the waters in search of the elixir of life.  (He never returned from a 210 BC voyage, so I suppose it could have gone either way.)  An ancient woman gingerly makes her way uphill from the train station, a walk that could be her own version of the elixir of life.  A few others are out resuscitating the vegetable plots after the long winter.  

 A massive boulder field contains the former site of Otake-chaya, but I get no place to rest as I climb again out of town toward Obuke-tōge. I pull up short to at the trailhead as I intend to double climb this pass later in the day, so instead follow the road back down and around to the quaint little Hadasu station, where I have lunch on the sunny platform as I await my train. 

 

 It is a short five-minute ride to Odomari. I wrap myself up and out of town and soon enter the forested Kannon-no-michi, which is the more atmospheric, if not more challenging, of the two passes. I detour at the top to the old Tomari Kannon ruins, and am surprised to find that it is in the process of being rebuilt.  But there are no workmen here today, so I sit and recharge with some chocolate but pushing on.  It is a wonderful roller-coaster stretch that rises and falls beside more of those Shishigaki stone walls, with a rewarding view of the upcoming Matsumoto-toge and the crescent of shoreline beyond. 

I reach Obuke-tōge, where I stash my bag in the forest before racing unencumbered down to the trailhead that I'd tagged a couple of hours before, and back.  The descent off the pass is gradual and smooth, but near the bottom, as I ponder a large sinkhole in the forest floor, I hear the unmistakable sound of a bear lumbering through the thicker on the opposite bank of the stream.  I don't remain in the forest for long.   

 

 

The Ise-ji moves through a pair of small fishing villages and over a towering concrete breakwater to Odomari.  I'd crossed the upcoming Matsumoto-toge about ten years ago, but from the other direction. Ever the purist, I climb again, but regret it immediately, as the steep set of stone ishitatami steps taxes legs weary from a day of passes.  Once atop, I admire the tall Jizo marking the pass, this one complete with bullet hole from the 19th Century shinbutsu bunri version of MAGA lunacy.  

 

I hadn't time or daylight during my previous visit to follow the lateral trail heading through the forest toward the Onigajō ruins, and this too was another reason to repeat the climb . Rather than following a straight line, this path too rises and falls.  The views over sea in three directions proves the effort.  Then quickly back down the other side toward the outskirts of Kumano City.  As I sit with a cold drink from a vending machine, I startle the attractive middle-aged woman opening up the Okonomiyaki shop on whose bench I'm resting. 

 

One last section to go, following the path that winds around the base of Onigajō, up and down steps cut into the soft sandstone cliffs and terraces.  Being a Friday night, a group of rather rough looking youths are drinking chu-hi and staring out toward the sun now beginning to set.  I pass more of them as I move along the narrow paths, like I'm a spectator at a chimpira parade. One of them looks old enough to be someone's mother, yet she too had affected their funky look.  Now I know who bought the booze. 

This truly is a magnificent place, and my delight with it would be further enhanced if I weren't so damn worn out from the day.  After passing through a pair of tall arches, I finally reach the carpark on the far side, then pick up pace in the falling light, reaching baths and beer and food at the oasis of Hotel Nami.

 

On the turntable: The The, "Infected"

 

Filling the Gaps along the Ise-ji III

 

On the Ise-ji, Yakiyama terrifies most.  The height and length of the pass are well out of scale from that of anything else on the entire walk.  Getting an early start out of Owase is a good idea, and the road out of town is narrow and straight but for a long detour around the quiet neighborhoods that now squat atop the former masagata curves.  I almost miss this, except for a passing bus driver whose gestures I take for a simple greeting.  A moment later I realize that he was gesturing that I had passed my turn-off a few dozen meters back. 

As I trudge along, I come to realize that walks and hiking have come to serve as a Vipassana of sorts.  It is a practice of dealing with sensations in the body, and then letting them go.  As regards walking and hiking, more than letting them go, I simply ignore them. Which rarely leads to desired consequences, as with my aborted attempt at this route last December.

But today, so far all was well.  Until a sign at the trailhead warns me that a large section of the route is off limits.  And in true Vipassana fashion, I choose to let this information go.  I don't mind detours on regular hikes, but on historical courses I want to get in every step. In the majority of cases, the damage is minor, and easily skirted.  (Though due to the more ferocious weather patterns of recently years, some warnings are better heeded.). As I move through a section of high grass a few hundred meters further on, I try to ignore the workman running up behind me.  Luckily I am able to do my usual blag -- "reporter on assignment to write about blah blah blah" -- and surprisingly he lets me continue, after giving some advice about how to navigate the damaged section.     

 

 Luckily I'm allowed to go on.  The trail is a beautiful passage though a forest that gradually grows more natural the higher it gets.  There are ample historical markers and plentiful jizo statuary.  Then suddenly the trail stops, where a crucial bridge has been washed out.  The workman had suggested I cross the steam higher up, but the forest is too thick and the going looks tough.  Instead, I lower myself into the stream bed, using the new metal rails that would support the new bridge.  They serve as monkey bars of sorts, as I go arm over arm, my feet resting lightly across the rocks midstream.  Then I heave myself back onto trail again.  

It had been a gentle ascent up to that point, but then the path begins to switchback sharply up until the peak itself.  The old rock-laid trail has grown uneven with centuries of erosion, and the irregularity of footfalls are an unwelcome challenge.  Near the top is a new-ish shrine that would make for a great place to overnight.  There is another smaller shrine out back, each anointed with dozens of identical bottle of sake, complete with white plastic caps for partaking.  They spread across the hillside like the kodama forest sprites of Mononoke-hime.    

But the peak comes up sooner than I'd expected, and the climb is done.  I take a long lunch break in a large open area of grass nearby, enjoying the view of the fishing towns stretching along the peninsula below. I note that there was an adjacent Meiji trail that hadn't been on any of my maps, but the path looks pretty hairy, so I stick with the Edo route.  At its lowest reaches the tree graffiti begins.  They are complaints from local woodsmen that granting World Heritage status to the Kodō would deny them the livelihood their families had had for centuries or more.  

 

 The final stage of the trail is a bisection of low stone walls meant to keep the fields below beast-free, and reminds me of the stone walls of the lower Ryukyu Islands.  A beautiful house with an lush and ample grass yard stands just where the forest ends, overlooking the broad bay and got me playing the what-if game.  It would be lovely to live here.  

I had met a young couple on my previous visit to Mikisato, with shared interests in kayaking and yoga and taiko, but sadly they aren't at home when I drop by their guest house.  So I instead take a chocolate break at the water's edge, before climbing up and through the village and around the other side of the bay.  

Entering forest again, I'm not prepared for how the rest of the day will go.  The trail hugs the forest walls above the road below, and climbs and drops before returning to tarmac for short stretches. These roller-coaster routes are always the most tiring for me, and I had already had a pretty full morning with Yakiyama.  Like some kind of punishment, the trail drops all the way down from Miki-tōge before climbing all the way to the heights again.  But the trail along the Hago-tōge that follows was an ample reward, running smoothly beside more beautiful stone walls, before eventually depositing me on the edge of Kata.  I pass schoolkids on their way home, as I move through the village toward my accommodation on the other side of the bay. 

 

 Owase Seaside View is my splurge this trip, with luxuriant dinner and baths overlooking the quiet waters of the bay.  My room proves massive, and I am happy for my early arrival, soaking myself post-soak with the view and some quiet reading and the generous yet dangerous complimentary samples of plum wine.

 

On the turntable:  Avatars of Dub, "One Drop Theory"

 

Filling the Gaps along the Ise-ji II

 

Early the following March.  I arrive at Kii-Nagashima in a gradually diminishing rain, and am out of town within minutes. Uomachi is much quieter than it had been in summer 2022.  The number of beauty salons is out of proportion somehow, but I suppose it is something to do is this quiet town. Plus I love the huge sign for "Liza and Bambi (since 1957)." The village shrine looks smaller on this grey day, the plum tree on its grounds a contrast of pink petals on dark black boughs.  The waters of the inlets are haunted by the ghosts of karaoke boxes, and in front of one I am finally forced to pull on my rainwear.  The scent here of hot metal and dead crab is nearly overwhelming.  

I meet a trio of older hikers atop Ikkoku-tōge, the only walkers I'll meet over the entire five days.  The views open over the sea, then I'm on the far side. Into Furusato Onsen, where I overnighted on my previous trip. The village greets me with plums, yet it hosts a mikan stand, closed this late in the season.  I suppose the same can be said for the overgrown temple nearby.  

Miura-tōge comes and goes, with its beautifully simple wooden bridge and old Toyota Crown rusting into forest.  It's not long to the next pass of Hajikami. There is a choice of two routes here, but I take the shorter one, with the intention of returning to the newer Meiji Road later. This afternoon of small passes reminds me of the Kumano Kodō's Kii-ji and Ohechi sections, days spent traipsing through the long waterfronts of villages, ultimately broken by a quick up and over to the next one.  The warmth of the day brings about thoughts of bear, but the date on the calendar helps allay those fears.

 

Funatsu hosts the Miyama history museum in a lovely old Meiji building, but it has closed just a few minutes before.  I am rapidly losing light when I hitch a ride down to Owase, and my digs for the night.  I'd already climbed Magose-toge, so I'd begin the following day's walk from here.  

I've written before (and critically) of the city, dubbed by the tourist fathers as the belly button of the Ise-ji, yet one filled with lint.  I have friends who are enamored with the place, but I find it far too gone in its decay.  There is a revitalization of sorts going on, but it feels lackluster to me, and undertaken far too late.  Still it is an indisputably important resupply stop for the long distance walker.  

I still have a bit of time to kill before the restaurants would open fro dinner, so I wander over to the grand Owase Shine, then ramble around the town's lanes, amazed at the vast number of long-shuttered buildings.  I spy light coming from an izakaya, and upon entering, I quickly rattle off a few lines in polished Japanese so as to set the owner at ease with a foreign face popping through the door.  He tells me that they are booked for the night (which I inevitably wonder whether is true, or simply a ploy to ward off the foreigner and his uncertain behavior), and directs me to a shop a few streets over.  The granny running the place looks friendly enough, but the shop is really run down and allows smoking.  So I wander yet again, finally settling on a small joint run by a young guy and his mother. As I am the only customer, I sit at the counter and chat with them awhile, until a few other people straggle in.  I quietly head back to my hotel, whose name of Viola  always reminds me of the Dead, as in Grateful, rather than civic.

 

On the turntable: Abbey Lincoln, "It's Me"      

 

Filling the Gaps along the Ise-ji

 

Despite a very early start, I didn't arrive at Kawazoe Station until around 10 a.m.  Not any ideal situation, as I had a good deal of ground to cover, and the December day allowed me only six hours of daylight to do so.   A steady pace would get me there, though I'd have little in reserve to explore more deeply things found along the way.  I also wasn't looking forward to the fact that much of the walk would along the busy Route 42, but at least its steady buzz of traffic would keep me moving rapidly forward.  

I recalled well the little station at Kawazoe, where I'd finished the last leg in the summer of 2022.  The village (and all the other villages) must have been a charming place to live, before being denigrated to a place to blow past along R42.   My map mentions some statuary beside the path, but despite my walking a few back-and-forths, they never reveal themselves.  Perhaps they'd been moved during renovations for the brand new shrine on the hillock just above.  I am further puzzled by an exercise bench set-up where the barbell is weighted by circular stones of concrete, Flintstones-style. 

Route 42 comes up all too soon, and the wind whips me up and over the pass. A new religion has built a temple-cum-castle at the top, beside a large rock where a legendary princess of old had taken a break. A mysterious cluster of Jizo just off trail has me wondering if the route was dumbed down to have us follow the new highway rather than squiggle across a mountain route that I see on my map.  That also matches the description in some of the older books for some other statuary that I never actually saw.  There are plenty of historic information signs, but little trace of what they indicate.  

At any rate, I am finally led off R42, down a gentle road that leads to the picturesque Yahashira Shrine on the outskirts of Misedani.  There a junction here of sorts, with a small trail that wraps around the back of some houses and down to the banks of the Miyagawa.  In old times, a ferry service led pilgrims across, but today it would need to be prearranged.  I decide to go to the landing anyway, in the off chance I can blag a ride.  But all is quiet along this jagged, rocky stretch of river, but for the flags whipping on the landing across the water.  

A backtrack, then back along the new Ise-ji route.  Apparently, no one under 60 lives in Misedani.  The town hall shares a carpark with the michi-no-eki, which feels Reiwa appropriate somehow. I take a quick lunch, then head over Funaki bridge, a 125 year old concrete beauty, with waist-high, vertigo-inducing railings.  Safe across, I have a long monotonous slog above the river, and paralleling for the second time the mountain pass that I'll be crossing posthaste. The eyes drawn repeatedly upward to the heights to follow, this approach takes a toll on the walker's psychology and spirit.    

 

I finally reach the opposite boat landing that I'd seen earlier, just below another Yahashira Shrine, this one elegant and quiet and shaded by bamboo forest.  The climb toward Misesaka-toge begins sharply and in earnest from here, but despite being the first day, the going is easy, and I suddenly find myself on the other side.   

Takihara-no-miya appears like an oasis.  I walk a long while under towering forest that shades her. It appears that the shrine is modeled on the grand Ise Shrines, and squares empty of all but stone suggest that these structures too are rebuilt every 20 years. I'd love to take a longer break here, even doze out of sight behind one of the grand trees, but the sands continue to fall through the hourglass.

Adjacent Taki has some very nice schools, old timey and made of wood, which always catches the citified eye more used to concrete prisons filled with shouting kids.  The town also has a penchant for VW Beetles.  A beautiful campsite of tall A-frame cottages stands at the bend of the Ouchiyama River, which brings giggles to my Anglophilic brain.  

 

The jōyato of Aso are telling me to hurry up and get the hell to my inn.  My knees and my feet and my rapidly dropping body temperature agree.  Dusk is rising up too quickly.  I take a long rest at a shuttered takoyaki stand, phoning my inn to mention that I am running late, and to check on the time for dinner.  Six.  Shit, I'm going to have to push it if I want a bath first.  And that would be a need, rather than a want.   

The stretch that follows is a mind-numbing trudge along R42, then finally onto a quiet road leading gently into rice paddies, still dormant for the season.  Sadly, dark has fallen fully, one of the very few times that I've been caught out on my walks.  Nothing to do but march toward the lights in the distance.  The lack of visual stimulation brings my awareness to fall heavily on the condition of my feet, which are basically hamburger.  Large blisters have colonized the balls of both feet, and each push forward is agony.  I eventually arrive at Dairen-ji, and I plonk myself on the stone steps for a rest.  I curse the dark, as the temple looks inviting, as does the Kiseiso inn next door.  It is only after I return home to my notes that I realize that that was where I should have booked for the night, as recommended by other walkers I follow online. I watch a train disgorge its passengers at the station below me, then trudge the last 15 minutes to my own inn, which in my current condition takes twice that time.       

My innkeeper winces when she sees my feet and mercifully lets my have a quick shower, despite it being well past six.  I too wince when I notice there is no bath here, something my feet desperately need.  Dinner brings respite, though I can almost feel my blisters bubbling under the kotatsu, and sitting on the floor is an agony for overworked hips.  I never have walked myself into such a pathetic condition, yet somehow I covered 34 km, far beyond my predicted 24.  That distance is simply masochistic for a first day.  Sleep comes quickly, but often broken due to pain.

 

I depart at daybreak, the light just coming into the sky.  The foot pain has receded to a dull throb, but with the promise of a steady increase.  It is a beautiful morning, the river almost yellow in the rays of the new rising sun.  I hug the twisting curves, along high berms bordering rice fields.  I can smell the pig farm a good half and hour before I got to it.  No matter what type of animal they process, these kinds of places always share the same scents: of shit and blood and death.  

 Luckily the trail keeps me off R42.  The highlight is the shaded section of wood of Ashitani, though my mincing little steps between tree roots quickly returns the pain to my feet.  By the time I hit tarmac again, all is agony.  I also realize that it is 8 a.m. and I hadn't yet had any coffee, the walk thus far devoid of vending machines.  I find my first at Ouchiyama Station and have a long sit to rest my feet.  Satisfactorily caffeinated, my final stretch up to Umegadani Station is mainly along R42, though it is quieter here and the beauty of the morning brings out the best of the landscape.   

The pre-trip intention was that I'd catch a train down to Kii-Nagashima, as I'd already walked the twin passes that split off from here.  But for my feet.  I can go no further today, or any other day to come.  As I await my train, I mentally recalculate what I need to finish the rest of the walking route, and find a window next March to where I could shift my accommodation dates.  As my train arrives, I hobble aboard, disappointed when the doors close on what promises to be a week of perfect walking weather.

 

On the turntable:   Jani Kovačič, "Thomas Alan Waits: A Tom Waits Homage"

 

Ballad of a Thin Road

 

Before I even got close to the lake I found myself bobbing along the current.  This was mighty peculiar in that this current flowed uphill.  Or more precisely, up the stairs of Hikone station.  I had purposely left early so as to avoid rush hour, and I was successful for the first part of the journey.  But eventually, rush hour found me, and the train filled up with businessmen and schoolchildren, all of them kitted out in the dark attire appropriate to the season.  I eventually left the flow upon arriving once again at the castle.  I paid quick respects to the adjacent shrine, my mouth down-turned at the sight of a stele marking aikoku, patriotism, a concept I've never really understood, or accepted. 

I traced the narrow trails along the old castle moat, passing fishermen, elderly walkers, and a man sitting in the bleachers above a tennis court, ready to launch a basket full of balls, atop which a racquet was laid.  Workers were hard at work on extensions to the soccer stadium.  These grounds on the castle's far canal were surprising in the their scale, an efficient use of ample land which had already existed.  

I moved to where I had last left the Umi no Be, but along the canal I was surprised to see an elbow bend marking the path. Before long I was led back to the bicycle course I'd followed last time.  As that had been a pretty uneventful walk, I had chosen a few Bob Dylan bootlegs to distract me from the steady and ever present flow of traffic hissing past to my left.  For the most part I kept my eyes turned right, out over the waters of the lake.  The peaks across were clear and well-detailed, and over my shoulder, the unmistakable shape of Ibuki loomed far to the north.       

Luckily, a path led me down into a another lakeside park, as I'd found to Hikone's north.  It was much more pleasant going, along a welcome promenade of trampled grass, and beneath sakura and pine.  They'd obviously had some pretty severe weather recently, with a tremendous amount of flotsam as far as three meters from the now quietly lapping shore.  The ground itself was sodden.  Must've been a hell of a storm

And there were signs; warning of kamikaze crows, warning off the playing of ground golf (although one area must've been okay, either that or this city had some pretty rebellious seniors).  I'd rejoin the road at river crossings, on one occasion startling a bicyclist zipping along.  I popped into a convenience store to stock up on lunch.  It was due to close in two days, though the remaining stock looked like it wouldn't last even that long.  Had it been an hour later in the day I would've instead stopped at a  tasty looking deli about fifty steps away.  As I stood in front perusing the menu, an elderly woman caught me in the act of singing Dylan lyrics out loud, something about a tax-deductible charity organization.  

I rejoined the grassy promenade.  Further on, I noted that the Umi no Be signs were oriented toward the shore.  Was the shale beach there the actual trail?  I walked along it awhile, but it slowed my momentum, as my shoes found resistance in the stones.  As feared, it ended abruptly at the next river inlet, forcing me to do a high-wire act along some sodden concrete wall slippery with moss.  

The main highway moved away to the east, and my road was all quiet suburb now, except for a small factory where large and powerful pleasure craft spent their winters.  My trail led me behind the houses, moving just above the beach, here too strewn with debris.  There were many vegetable gardens here, and a friendly old man greeted me from his.  Behind was a lovely deck with some comfy looking chairs.  In one of them he would surely reward the day's labors with a brew and a view.  He moved toward the shore, to rake the driftwood and detritus that had built up., telling me that this line of debris was about two meters further inland than usual.  He then bid me take care, and we both returned to the work ahead of us.     

A black robed priest bicycled past, wearing a construction helmet.  Obviously heeding the new helmet laws, or perhaps concerned by the crows the signs warned about.  The stretch of beach beyond him was lined by a meter-high concrete wall that apparently protected the houses within.  More of the land here had been converted to fields, and in one an old man in a conical hat squatted to pull weeds.  A few houses also had basketball hoops, in most cases the rims bent thirty degrees toward the ground.  These were obviously the homes of bigger, stronger kids.  

The houses began to get further from the shore, and my path was once again shaded by pines, much welcome as this early May day grew warm.  Summer wouldn't be so far away. Finally the houses themselves disappeared altogether.  I now walked through the grass just above the shore, amazed at the various shapes and sizes of detritus, at the forms trees and branches and twigs could take. Then it occurred to me that the patterns in which they lay were the actual shapes of the waves, which mimicked the shape of the underwater line further out where the deep becomes the shallow.   

Ano benchi was listed on my map as a historical landmark.  I imagine this is tongue in cheek, this lone bench sitting at the side of a carpark, denoted by bicyclists and bikers, and people out driving on a Sunday.  The parks continued, broken now and again by inlets and bridges.  Thus went the day.

 

 

I finally left these altogether, tracing the peninsulas covered by farm houses and their corresponding plots of land.  I began to hate these, as they offered little by way of scenery, or variety, and simply meant more kilos walked under the hot sun.  Most of the fields now surrounding me were wheat, and a couple of combines were making the rounds.  Adjacent fields held green onions.  Two workers sat pulling bulbs on overturned milk crates, faces unseen due to conical hats and unhealthy postures.  I assumed from the tough physical work involved that they weren't Japanese.

I moved back along the beachfront now.  Cars were parked in the intermittent pullouts, men lazed behind their vehicles in folding camp chairs or even hammocks, shirtless in the sun.  One small section of shoreline had been cleared of debris, forming a clean sandy approach shaded by a table atop which were drinks.  A trio of vehicles were parked above, filled with paddles, lifejackets, SUPs.  One of the drivers was reclining along the length of one board, his own hammock of sorts.  This stretch of the Umi no Be certainly was bucolic.   

The beachfront was eventually replaced by a grove of trees that lined the shore.  Through one break in the foliage I saw a half dozen people on SUPs, slowly paddling along the coast.  Which explained the trucks, and their sleepy drivers.  

I followed this frontage road to where sand hit rock, and finding no trail into the forest, I moved along the face of the small mount now looming above.  There was a gate, which contrary to similar gates that break most country paths, was impossible to open, fixed as it was with three sets of thick, Gordian-knotted wire, the whole works smothered in cobwebs.  Luckily someone had knocked down a small section of adjacent fence, which solved the problem of getting through.     

In the carpark ahead I found a marker for the Umi no Be, the first I'd seen in awhile.  It pointed me up a forested path toward Isaki-ji temple, which I was assured was 900 meters away.  The trail was broad, lined with railway ties and covered with gravel which made for easy walking.  But the slow steady incline gradually brought the rhythm of my breath into pace with that of my footfalls. 

The temple hondo was an attractive wooden structure perched atop rock. A smaller Fudō hall further down by the shoreline was a mix of wood and concrete, which though less aesthetically pleasing, made sense I suppose, considering its position on the windward side of the lake.  

Doubling back to rejoin my trail, I met the temple priest in the garden, the color of his work clothes matching that of the weeds he was pulling. He confirmed for me that people once traveled here strictly by boat, a fact made evident by the stones steps descending through an elaborate gate and to the water's edge.  

But I moved away from these, up a path steep and overgrown and pointed due south.  I kept my eyes lowered, ever aware of snakes.  More active were the wild boar, who'd torn up sections here and there.  I moved along, climbing and puffing into the dappled sunshine, quite pleased that, after days of trudging on tarmac, the Umi no Be would draw to a close in the hills. 

Or nearly.  There was a final short meander along a shoreline road, which terminated on the beach of the Kyukamura resort.  All was quiet, but for a guy whacking weeds somewhere, and the occasional car drifting by above.  I was able to thumb a lift from one, which brought me into Omi-hachiman proper, to celebrate with a pint (or two) at the local Two Rabbits brewery, an activity made more auspicious in this year corresponding to the same animal of the Chinese zodiac.    

 

On the turntable:  Grateful Dead, "1995-04-05, Jefferson Civic Center Coliseum"