by Jarrod Zenjiro Suda
Skies are clear. The humid summer air mixes to produce a crack of thunder. For the past several hours, I have been swatting away giant cicadas, ducking past spider webs, and throwing rocks at snakes to scare them off the trail.
Something inside me was compelled to make the journey into this wild. I think I needed time to reflect on it all – the friends I’ve made, the places I’ve seen, my three years in Kyoto.
Nachi Falls – Japan’s ancient epicenter of mountain asceticism.
The section of the Kumano Kodo pilgrimage that I am walking stretches from a rural coastline to Hongu Grand Shrine. With my hiking shoes, I trace the footsteps of philosophers and Imperial Family members. We begin at Takijiri-Oji rest station.
Takajiri-Oji
An eighty-something-year-old lady gazes out from a worn wooden diner that sits on the side of a dusty road. Her middle-aged daughter wears a chef’s apron and her hair in a bun. They wave at me to enter.
I ask the daughter, “Do you sell bento boxes for the road?”
“We sure do,” she replies. “Please, have a seat.”
I sit at a table with the elderly mother. She is short in stature and wrinkles have grown around her eyes. But an energetic smile defines her face.
The daughter returns from the kitchen with my bento lunch and fresh breakfast for her mother. Before the old lady takes a bite of her toast, she hands me a frozen bottle of water.
“Stay cool on your hike,” she says fanning herself.
I extend my hand, “Thank you.”
The Kumano Kodo is one of only two official UNESCO World Heritage Pilgrimages. The other is the Santiago de Compostela Pilgrimage in the northern region of Spain.
I pay for the bento and express my thanks. Before I can leave the shop, I hear the mother again from behind my shoulder. Her smile radiates still.
Onīchan! she says loudly. “Young man! Take my other piece of toast. I’m not hungry.”
The daughter rolls her eyes with a laugh. She turns to me, “Oh, Mom is always giving away stuff to you travelers.”
A memory I have of 73-year old Iku and her 102-year old mother comes back to me. The mother and daughter live in Kyoto.
Iku joined me weekly for English conversation practice. At 7:04 pm without fail, Iku would reach for her ringing flip phone.
“Moshi-moshi. Everything okay?” she would mumble to her mother. “Okay,” she’d continue. “Okay. Bye-bye.”
“Sorry,” Iku would say with a grin. “That’s just my mom letting me know that she’s still alive today.”
Nezu-Oji
The trail ascends higher. My water bottle is melting. I soon come upon the second Oji statue, which has been bestowed with offerings of coins and flowers made by fellow pilgrims. These little shrines have been guiding us safely to Hongu Grand Shrine for centuries. I say a prayer and carry on.
Jizo is the guide of souls and the protector of children. Adorned with a red bib, he ensures that our spirits navigate safely through the afterlife and into heaven.
Takahara Kumano-Jinja
Once I make my way onto the mountain’s ridge, a deck comes into view. For miles, nothing can be heard but gusts of wind and the cries of the cicadas. Rice paddies that cascade down to the valley floor are caressed, for a moment, by rolling clouds.
I open up my bento lunch and glance at the old lady’s melting water bottle, and crack a smile. The Oji have been watching over me.
Chikatsuyu-Oji
After lunch, I proceed down the mountain pass to reach Chikatsuyu Village. The water bottle contains liquid at last, so I soak my headband with it and empty the ice-cold remainder onto my head to fight the fatigue. Outlines of houses and roads become visible through the tree line. My guesthouse awaits.
Chikatsuyu Village
I am greeted by the morning sun. Awaking from the tatami mat floor, a wave of energy comes over me. Today, I head for Hongu Grand Shrine.
Toganoki-Jaya Teahouse
The first stop on the trail is not another Oji but a thatched-roof tea house. A teapot hangs over the central fire pit and the smell of smoke seeps into the earthen walls.
“Ken and Sumi would have loved to see this,” I think.
Sumi is the owner of Cafe Frosch, a Kyoto townhouse cafe located in the city’s old textile industry district. Ken is a carpenter who built Yumeji Guesthouse, an elegant traditional hotel that he operates just up the street from Sumi.
It was last winter. Ken, Sumi and I were sitting around a gas heater, enjoying some of Sumi’s home-baked bread.
“This building was dark and abandoned before I opened up Cafe Frosch,” said Sumi grazing her fingers gently upon the clay plastered walls. “These walls were rotting away at one point.”
“It’s incredible that you were able to preserve such an old building,” I replied.
Carpenter Ken and his heavy Kansai accent interjected, “You see that big wooden beam up there?”
He pointed up at the now-refined wooden ceiling. One continuous beam – crafted from a single, carefully chosen tree – stretched from one side of the cafe to the other.
“A good woodworker was here,” he continued. “You don’t see much work like that anymore.”
Here I am assisting my good friend and carpenter Ken with the renovation of a run-down machiya townhouse in Kyoto.
In a Japan that has seen a rapid vertical growth of gray and glass towers, Ken and Sumi won’t allow the fragile traditions of architecture to slip through Kyoto’s fingers.
You can do it, Ken and Sumi! Ganbare!
Hidehira-Zakura Cherry Tree
I duck past the wooden door of the tea house and return to the Kumano valley. The trail leads me on through forests, over rivers, and under the protection of the Oji. While walking through one rural village, I see a line of cherry trees that the locals had planted.
It was my first spring in Kyoto and I was walking through the quiet grounds of a temple one afternoon. Beneath the sweeping limbs of a cherry tree, the monks had written a haiku – for us commoners – on a blackboard. It stopped me in my tracks.
口開いて Jaws dropping in awe
落花眺むる Children watch falling petals
子は佛 They are enlightened
It was a reminder to slow down from the decorated distractions of busy life. If you don’t look up from your phone enough, the wind might blow the cherry blossoms out of sight.
One thing that I will miss dearly about Kyoto is its plethora of Buddhist temples and their pithy billboards of wisdom.
Since the temple in my neighborhood would write something new each month, I would always walk past in anticipation of next month’s message.
Fushiogami-Oji
I have made it to the final stretch of the pilgrimage. Over this final mountain pass, the Hongu Grand Shrine’s massive torii gate rises into view. With ancient pilgrims from journeys past walking at my side, I climb to the top of the overlook. Our hearts skip a synchronized beat. At last, here we stand.
The Kumano River flows past the largest torii gate in the world. The river will eventually weave its way into the Pacific Ocean.
Kumano Hongu Taisha
Through this sacred valley, Japan’s first emperor led his army to victory to unite the Japanese islands as one. Yatagarasu, the ancient three-legged crow, was the god who guided him here. Emperors have come here to pray for the purification of the spirit.
It is time for me, also, to pay my respects.
“At the gate,” writes author Alex Kerr, “you’ve reached the end of your journey to get here; and the start of a new, internal journey.”
As my journey comes to a close, I feel a deep gratitude for this beautiful country and the many places that I have been able to see. I know that I must board a plane four days from now and move on to something new, but Japan continues to call to me.
Japan calls to me like those children who I met on vacation last autumn.
My parents came to Japan to visit me so we decided to adventure through Yakushima, an island off the coast of southern Japan. On that rural island of just 13,000 inhabitants, the local children spend their afternoons on the docks, fishing and swimming.
At the conclusion of our trip, my parents and I boarded a ferry to return to the mainland. Once the boat pulled away from the harbor, the young boys raced to the edge of the jetty to see us off. As we shrank into the horizon, the children waved at us – welcoming us to return to their little corner of the world.
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All photos by Jarrod Zenjiro Suda
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