Tag Archives: Nature

A Flood Day to Dry Hard

Posted on by

The news tells me that today there is an excessive heat warning in place in Wakayama. My oh-so-reliable weather application tells me that it will be cloudy all day. The gods split the difference. As I exit the bus unprepared for anything other than heat or cloud, the heavens split open in a thunderous rage of fury.

I am at Kumano-Nachi Taisha. As the thunder rolls over the sky I manage to take just one photograph of a torii gate and the mountains beyond, right then, before the rain catches up with the thunder. Luckily for me, there is a shop, so I enter, purchase, then poncho up.

I duck inside the Treasure Hall. No photos allowed, but I explore freely. I wrote about the Nachi Pilgrimage Mandala yesterday, but seeing the real thing up close is something else. I enjoy the other art, artefacts, simple objects from a time lost in the past. Most of the treasures here were discovered in 1918, but are from around the 10th century, with the shrine itself being 1,700 years old.

Stepping out of the Treasure Hall, the rain has intensified fivefold, and some of the ground has already flooded. People cower with umbrellas.

The rainwater crashes down and smashes into the roof of the shrine like a torrent of broken glass, slicing through the air with a merciless, unyielding force. I have never experienced rain like it. The raindrops actually hurt.

I came for the waterfall. Or so I believed. Right now, I feel like I’m inside one. I struggle to see where the waterfall could even be in comparison to the falling water. A monk passes me, dressed in dark blue. He carries an umbrella and seamlessly manoeuvres the flooding and the puddles, calm as you like.

Legend has it that the first emperor of Japan, Emperor Jinmu, found the waterfalls when his boat landed on the Kii Peninsula and he saw something shining in the mountains. At the time, he had been following a Yatagarasu (a mythical three-legged crow sent by the gods as a guide).

I follow the path down the mountain toward Nachi Falls. The sky bellows with more thunder, the road is full of water. Am I walking in the rain? Or am I swimming in a river? At points the water is knee-high. The drains can’t handle it. I can barely handle it, but I persevere.

I make it to the pagoda view, the one that’s often featured on the cover of a largely poorly written guidebook. They’ve never featured it in the rain. I enjoy my photograph very much.

Beside the pagoda sits a big statue of Hotei. God of fortune. The Laughing Buddha. Naturally, despite my soaking wet legs and shoes and inability to understand the point of it all, I rub his massive belly. Good luck and prosperity coming my way, again.

I venture on, down flooded sloped paths and dangerous steps, and eventually, I do arrive at Nachi Falls. The heavier rain drowns out the sound of the waterfall. There’s a story of some star-crossed lovers that leapt from the top of the waterfall in the belief that they would be reborn into Kannon’s paradise. I also know that this is one of the Top Three Waterfalls in Japan, a UNESCO World Heritage Site, and also plummets 133 metres, making it the tallest in Japan.

I head down some slippery steps, careful to hold the handrail. Below, the waterfall itself. Having already taken a spectacular photograph of the rain-soaked pagoda pavilion with Nachi Falls as a backdrop, I find it to be immensely difficult to capture the waterfall from up close, due to the intense rain and heavy flooding.

I stumble back up stone steps to a bus stop. Typically, upon arriving back at Kii-Katsuura Station, the rain suddenly stops. At the Turtle Boat back to my hotel, I stand at the dock. A Japanese salaryman stands beside me, perfectly dry. He glances at my poncho and then at the sky.

From the boat, I see a crow in the air. It looks as though it has three legs, but it’s just the tail feathers, fanned out in silhouette against the sky. Something that could easily be mistaken for three legs.

Back at the hotel, I hairdryer my shoes for two hours whilst waiting for my laundry to wash and dry, before heading out in search of a crow to photograph. In the end, all I find is this lousy t-shirt.

The Men Who Scare At Boats

Posted on by

There’s a massive clock outside Kii-Katsuura Station. Each tick sounds like a nail being hammered into a coffin. About a twenty-minute walk from the station, between the mountains and sea of Wakayama Prefecture sits Fudarakusan-ji, a small, unassuming Buddhist temple with a wooden boat outside.

The temple was built to face the Pacific Ocean because that is the perfect location for casting boats out to sea. The only problem with these boats was the reason they were cast out; the priests inside them were trying to reach Fudaraku, the Pure Land.

The boats were designed with a sealed cabin, no windows or doors; a claustrophobics nightmare. Ever had a dream about being buried alive? The priests here lived it. They’d climb inside, and the boats would be nailed shut from the outside. The orange wood and torii gates surrounding all four sides of the boat are a nice touch.

Water, a small supply of food, and a fuel lamp were placed inside before the priest’s departure. The lamp was there so the priest could keep reciting sutras and appeals to Kannon until they found the Pure Land, until they reached the end of their journey, or their life.

Some of the boats washed up in Kii-Katsuura Bay. A few priests escaped. Most died of starvation, drowning, or dehydration. To stay on theme, I book a night in Urashima. To get there, I have to board a boat myself. This one features no death, just a turtle mascot. The four huge buildings making up the backdrop are all part of my hotel: one on top of a mountain with an observation platform, one at the side of the mountain connected through a network of tunnels, one at the base of the mountain by the dock, and one that isn’t shown on any maps but is there, accessed through the labyrinth.

Checking into my accommodation I’m provided a map. The hotel is so large it features a multitude of interconnected buildings attached through tunnels and cave systems carved into a mountain. The place describes itself as a resort and spa. It has everything: five onsen baths, a games centre, karaoke rooms, a Lawson Stores, shopping streets, massage parlours, restaurants for eating, ballrooms for dancing, ball rooms for ball games, conference rooms, well you get the idea.

There’s one area where I have to take multiple escalators rising the length of 154 metres that take about five minutes. There’s rest areas between each escalator with sofas and tables, just in case the standing becomes too much. I exit onto the 32nd floor and admire the view.

On one of the random floors, I find a replica of an original painted tapestry held in the Treasure Hall at Kumano-Nachi Taisha Grand Shrine. I’ll visit there tomorrow, weather permitting. The full tapestry features the Nachi Pilgrimage Mandala, which displays all the details of this area, from the top of the waterfalls down to Fudarakusan-ji. Here, at the bottom, one of the boats is being cast away into the Pacific Ocean.

Walking through the hotel, I feel as though I’m in some cult dystopian movie. Everyone is walking around in matching yukata. Some of the tourists are not Japanese and wear their yukata crossed the wrong way, for funerals. Everyone goes for breakfast at the same time, for dinner at the same time.

The hotel feels almost haunted, some entire areas are abandoned. It would be the perfect setting for a horror movie. It makes me feel like a rat in a maze or a character in Severance as I navigate the hotel’s endless, echoing corridors.

Having just about explored every length of the hotel, I decide to end the day by soaking in the healing power of a hot spring bath. Of the five to choose from, I opt for the one carved into a cave that looks out onto the Pacific Ocean.

The onsen is so peaceful that I no longer feel as though I’m in a hotel. Sadly, I’m not allowed to take photographs in the onsen, for obvious reasons, so instead, here is the view from the 32nd floor looking out into the bay, the 40 degree sky, and the town of Nachi-Katsuura.

I sit, submerged in hot water, staring past the cave and out to sea. I think of the lost souls who once set off from this shore, sealed inside a boat, nailed shut.

Before the Wind Blows It All Away

Posted on by

Today I’m travelling back in time, specifically, 20,000 years in time. I’m in Miyagi Prefecture to see the Museum of the Forest of Depths of the Earth. I don’t really know what to expect. When I arrive, there’s a small outdoor garden of evergreens and summergreens. There’s a single flower in the middle of the lawn, with a sign before it stating: Be careful not to step on the flowers. The sign uses the plural form flowers, and it bothers me slightly.

I believe the single flower is a panicled hydrangea. The garden has been recreated. “Let’s go into the grass and observe,” says another sign. The whole point of the place is to compare the vegetation of the Ice Age with that of present-day Sendai.

There’s an architecturally stunning structure in the gardens. It’s the only one of its kind in the world. Inside are the 20,000-year-old remains of a wetland coniferous forest. It might not sound very impressive, but when I walk through the doors of the museum and see the sheer size of the trees, it causes me to stagger.

The museum is fascinating. In 1987, an archæological dig found, just five metres below the ground, the preserved remains of fossilised trees, along with artefacts from the same era. There’s a separate tree root I’m encouraged to touch and smell, and it carries some weight.

Aside from the trees, I can also learn about the Paleolithic Age. There are the remains of a campfire that was excavated here. Bits of broken pottery. Deer fæces. Arrowheads. Glass boxes of skulls. Carnival Cutouts: the breath of ancient times.

Having touched a 20,000-year-old tree root, the only thing left to do later is visit a mountain, so I decide to walk to the coastline. Along the way, I pass a tsunami evacuation tower made from steel. It can safely evacuate 300 people to a height of at least six metres.

As I stare at the tower, the sky suddenly fills with grey cloud, and it begins to pour. I run into a nearby park but find nowhere to hide, eventually sheltering beneath a small Jizo statue. The smug Jizo is smiling and holding a rain wand.

Behind the statue is an embankment highway that runs along the Nanakita River and Sendai Bay, designed to help prevent tsunami waves. The tides must get pretty high here anyway, as on my side of the barrier are dozens of dead crabs, seemingly washed over the wall and cracked open on the concrete below. The Jizo shares his little shelter with the stench from the Sendai Gamo Biomass Power Plant. It stinks.

A little further up the coastline, I try to find what I’m really looking for. Usually, it’s pretty easy to find a mountain. But when you’re searching for what’s recognised as the smallest mountain in Japan, it gets trickier. I eventually do find it, half-hidden behind a factory car park.

I climb Mount Hiyori, Japan’s smallest mountain. Well, I don’t actually climb it. I just stand next to it. It looms at three metres now. Smaller than it once was. The 2011 Tohoku earthquake and tsunami took most of it. But still, someone left a summit marker. Still, it has a name. And I’m glad for that.

Around me, the wind starts to rise. I think about the ancient forest floor, perfectly preserved in silence. The looming shadow of a tree long gone. I think about how we keep naming things, even after they’ve almost disappeared. I think about how some things vanish slowly, and some things vanish all at once.

I walk away, back into the storm, careful not to step on the mountains.

Quivering Heights

Posted on by

I’ve come to Mount Hoju in Yamagata Prefecture to experience one of the best views in Japan. At the base of the mountain is the usual buzzing of tourist-targeted shops selling shaved ice, overpriced noodles, and fish-shaped waffles. Beyond that is the oldest beech wood building in Japan, home to a massive wooden statue of Buddha.

The statue is Yakushi Nyorai, the Buddha of healing. They say that if you have an illness or ailment, something you want cured, you rub that part of the Buddha, then climb to the top of the mountain and you will be miraculously healed. Naturally, I rub the Buddha on the neck and hope my scars fade.

Next, it’s time to climb the mountain. The road to the temple is 1,015 stone steps surrounded by thick woods and strangely shaped rocks. Cedar trees make up the mountain forest. The Risshakuji Temple at the top of the mountain means “Mountain Temple,” which is the perfect name for it, considering it is atop a mountain.

Some of the steps are in sections of 108, to represent the 108 Buddhist sins. There are Jizo statues scattered throughout the ascent adorned with coins. There’s a monument engraved with another poem by Basho, and it’s a famous one:

Such stillness,
the cicadas’ cries,
sink into the rocks.

After the second set of 108 steps I’m already worn out. Half a million steps last month, I now find myself humbled by a mere 216. I’m already close to spiritual defeat. The day is hot, the air quality poor, and it’s very humid. It has a way of wearing me out, I suppose.

It’s so hot that every now and again there will be an ever-so-slight breeze, and every time there is, I notice it. A lot of the Japanese people are carrying these little portable electric handheld fans. A country famous for fans, so it makes sense. At about 550 steps there’s a massive rock that everyone is photographing.

Further up, there’s Risshakuji, founded in 860 AD, a small temple of minimalist qualities. From here I realise just how high up I am, that I can make out the city below. The thing that’s unusual is there is no barrier here. I could fall off the mountain in an earthquake, and that’s exactly what almost happens.

The mountain shakes, ever so slightly. A shift. Nobody else seems to react or notice. It’s just the subtle shift. The whole thing took a tiny step to the side. The mountain itself… adjusts. It’s not dramatic. Nothing tumbles. There’s no sound. But I feel it. And for a moment I am filled with dread. Then it stops. I wonder if being on a mountain is the worst place to be during an earthquake.

Very close to the top of the mountain is a post box. At the bottom of the mountain there is a post office, a mere 940 steps away. I naturally feel sorry for the postman whose job it is to walk up and down a mountain every day to collect what is likely just the odd piece of mail.

1,015 steps. I reach the top. The cicadas’ song fills the humid afternoon here, sharp and piercing, like needles being driven into a heart. Their cries echo, sinking into the ancient rock.

A cemetery at the top concludes the climb. Crooked gravestones pushing through moss. Everything here is slanted, aged, dignified in its entropy. I sit beside the tombs, trying not to melt into them. The mountain temple echoes these themes of death, decay, and transcendence as it climbs through cemetery terraces and silence.

I stand to rest, to catch my breath, to take it in. My shirt clinging to me like skin, thirst calling me to a vending machine back at the base of the mountain. But I linger. Amongst the graves, everything feels tilted. Stones, time, even thought.

Walking down is the reward as I can see it all. All the views, all the way down. There’s something about a good vista. I say goodbye to the top of the mountain, and goodbye to the vista. Hasta la vista. Until I see the view again, opening like lungs exhaling. I can see the whole valley now, softened by haze.

Back at my capsule hotel, I voluntarily entomb myself in a plastic drawer like a very polite corpse.

Boatman Begins

Posted on by

Somewhere between October 23, 1868 and July 30, 1912, a discovery was made. What had previously been regarded as dangerous wilderness turned out to be one of the most beautiful places on Earth: Geibikei Gorge.

In Japan, they love a good top three. Night views, bridges, and today, gorges. Nobody explicitly states which of the top three is actually the best. Politeness says: make a top three list, and leave it at that. Geibikei Gorge is one of the top three gorges in Japan.

As well as being one of the top three gorges in Japan, Geibikei has also been designated a National Place of Scenic Beauty, a Natural Monument, and one of the 100 Landscapes of Japan. It certainly is one of the landscapes.

Geibikei Gorge (not to be confused with the similarly named Genbikei Gorge) is a 2-kilometre stretch surrounded by limestone cliffs. A river runs through it, so boats are required to fully explore it. The Satetsu River is a liminal, stillwater river. It flows neither up nor down. It just sits there like an ancient swamp. The only thing that interrupts the water is a boatman’s pole, or such nature as a falling leaf, the lapping of summer sweetfish, or the arrival of snakes.

We buy some fish food in a little plastic bag, then sit on the boat, all 44 of us. The boatman introduces himself.
“Hello, I am Sato. Nice to meet you.”
Everyone applauds. Sato-san notices me.
“Hey foreigner, where you from?”
I tell him England. He just laughs and begins rowing, merrily. The snake swims away, frightened by the ripples of the boat. I realise that, after all the years living in Japan, I’d never seen a snake. This is now the second day in a row I’ve seen one, and I actually manage to photograph it.

I sit, gazing out. Sato-san interrupts the serenity.
“Hey foreigner, if you have a hat, glasses, camera …” he pauses for comedic effect, then mimes dropping the items overboard. “Oh no!” he exclaims.
He then repeats the same actions in Japanese before pointing and shouting, “The next rock!” Which is of course Kyomei-Gan (Mirror Rock), reflecting the sparkle of water off its surface like a giant mirror.

There’s a phrase I can’t quite remember. Something about the memory of a fish. I remember seeing fish, so that’s probably it. They’re clever and know we have food, and they gnaw at the side of the boat, almost jumping from the water. They follow us as we disturb the stagnant river.

It’s said the sweetfish leap in early summer, and the carp in autumn. One of the carp didn’t get the memo and shows up the moment I throw my stash of food into the river. The carp makes one giant leap, eats it all, and swims away. The sight of the fish is reminiscent of the Chinese legend, known in Japan as toryumon, in which carp become dragons after successfully leaping up a waterfall.

We carry on along the river. Sato-san is very enthusiastic. He slowly pushes the boat along with the wooden pole, but does so effortlessly. We aren’t rowing. We aren’t sailing. He just pushes the pole into the riverbed, presses ever so slightly, and propels us forward. The boat drifts for a moment, carried by the newly made current, then slows to a stop. He pushes again.

He points out various rocks along the gorge, makes jokes in both Japanese and English, and treats the 44 of us as an audience in his comedy routine. His confidence shines through, lightly heckling us, answering questions, entertaining us. The entertainment is so good that I almost forget about the view.

Further in, the sun splits open the sky directly above and the heat becomes immense. Some ducks appear, looking for food, and the fish still follow. We pass a small shrine in a cave dedicated to Bishamonten, the god of treasure. Everyone stands and throws their coins across the water to the shrine. Thousands of coins surround it. More gleam beneath the surface. It must be pretty easy being the god of treasure when people just hurl money at you.

We pass a man in a watchtower holding a Nikon camera. He shouts for us to say “cheese” before taking our photo. We pass another boat heading in the opposite direction and everyone waves at everyone else, like we’re in this together. I guess we are. So we continue on. It really is indescribably beautiful.

I take a moment to think, to contemplate, to evoke. Then I take some boatographs.

Thirty minutes into the boat ride, it’s time to make land and take a break. We glide over to a pebbled beach. Sato-san says something in Japanese, then turns to me.
“Hey foreigner, twenty minutes walking come back.”
I reply that I understand, in Japanese. The other 43 people laugh.

I see somewhere on the map labelled “Ninja Rock ??” but realise, when I can’t find it, that it’s a clever joke. I pass a rock shaped like a horse’s head, and at the very end of the expanse is Senryutan (Lurking Dragon Depths). A dragon is lying in wait for its chance to rise from being a Geibi carp, apparently. If you manage to throw an undama (pebble) into the hole, you’ll be rewarded with good luck. Apparently.

I walk around for a while before boarding the boat again. Eventually, everyone returns and sits in their original seat. There’s one seat empty that wasn’t on the way down. Someone has gone missing, but Sato-san makes light of it, then pushes the boat out once more. This time, instead of taking photographs, we just take it in. And instead of narrating or pointing at rocks, Sato-san begins to sing.
“Song time,” he says. “Very old time song. I do five or six minutes… maybe.”
He sings for twenty.

His voice transforms into something ancient, filling the gorge, lingering among the cliffs:

As I pole my boat,
on the clear waters of the Satetsu River,
the clouds,
that dull my heavy heart,
are dispelled,
by the Lion’s Snout.

His voice echoes long after the last note fades.

After singing, he looks exhausted, yet continues to carry us through the gorge in reflective silence. Nobody speaks. Even the water has quietened. I’m glad that of the multiple boatmen working today, that we were lucky enough to have Sato-san as our guide. His personality and comedic timing were a highlight, one of the most memorable experiences I’ve had in Japan.

After the boat ride ends, we drift back into the real world. The gift shop waits patiently. A vending machine hums to the tune of overpriced green tea. I leave and take a train back to Morioka, walking the quiet streets until I reach Hoonji Temple. I take off my shoes and enter the silence. Inside the main hall, 499 rakan statues sit frozen in time.

They were hand-carved three centuries ago by nine monks. Each statue is lacquered, lifelike, and unmistakably human. Some laugh. Some grimace. A few seem lost in conversation. It’s almost as though I can hear them talking to one another. One of them is definitely Tom Waits. Others are said to resemble Marco Polo or Genghis Khan. There’s an expression to match everyone.

My eyes, for whatever reason, are drawn to a rakan sitting quietly in the corner, with a face I know well. It’s not me. It’s Sato-san. The boatman. Same smile. Same humour behind the eyes.
I blink, but he’s still there.
I never did find the one that looked like me.


Maybe I’m still being carved.