Mountain havens and the stories they bring

The view from the dining room at Kiri-no-Sato Takahara Lodge

I am not going in any order as I write about our Kumano Kodo journey.

No, day 1, day 2, day 3.

Instead, I am flitting through memories and writings, sharing them as they come back to me, going back and forth on the path, so to speak. Rest assured, we'll get "there." But you should know the funny thing about the end of a pilgrimage is that it never really ends, but keeps returning to you in disordered snatches when you're back at home thousands of miles away.

On each long-distance path, there is always one special accommodation, a unique stop most often found at the end of a hard day of walking. You start to relax the moment you stumble over the threshold.

A little bit of everything, including an espresso machine instead of vending machine coffee!

For me, that spot on this path was Kiri-no-Sato Takahara Lodge. This eclectic hostel immediately reminded me of the Spanish albergues, sitting atop a ridge facing the Hatenashi mountain range, which rises out of the morning mist like a green queen. 

Still, there was no question that we were in a Japanese lodge: the rooms were traditional Japanese, with tatami mats and screens and short tables and floor cushions for a leisurely tea. And the onsens (bathing and soaking rooms, separated by sex) called out to us almost as soon as our boots were off.

Onsen bathing is a quintessential Japanese experience and a highlight of the region's hospitality—more on onsens in another post.

I think I felt particularly at home here because it reminded me of another "organic" hostel along the Camino de Santiago pilgrimage path, which we walked in 2018.

Not a coincidence. It turns out that the Lodge owner walked the Camino and lived in Spain (and other European countries) before setting up his eclectic Kumano Kodo accommodation. The inn was filled with kitsch, art, and artifacts from those travels, and its aging tables and chairs contributed to a multicultural, shabby-chic vibe. 

But the star of this stay? Our dinner at Kiri-no-Sato was divine, made with vegetables from the lodge garden and other locally sourced ingredients. When the owner picked up his guitar and started to play, I considered staying a week. That night we watched the

But alas, there were miles to go …

Each person on a walk is invited to share a writing prompt with the group somewhere along the path. In keeping with my integrated arts approach, the prompts are typically preceded by a brief art or creativity exercise. 

If there is one place on the path that always stands out, I cannot say the same about the writing we share.

Each person on a walk is invited to share a writing prompt with the group somewhere along the path. Along this path, we pulled off into rocky coves, a cemetery, a picnic shelter, and several shrines to pull out our pads and pens. In keeping with my integrated arts approach, the prompts are typically preceded by a brief art or creativity exercise. 

It is an understatement to say that I am moved and often astonished by the writing I hear during a walk. 

"You have to say that," you might be thinking.

But the truth is, I don't. I am moved, astonished, and grateful for each piece.

It takes great courage to write. And greater courage to share our words.

On a portion of our walk we focused on "listening deeply," truly tuning into the sounds on the path and the stories and image and memories that arose in the hearing.

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Writing from the road

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A lovely cemetery in which to write

Listening Closely

by Colleen Powell

Most of my runs are in the cemetery. I’ve run among the dead on nearly every continent. The tranquil atmosphere can soothe my soul. The tombstones blur together as I pass, but I hear the sobs of the freshly grieving and the subtle sounds of dutiful family members cleaning the graves of those they’ve lost.  Occasionally, between my footfalls on the ribbon of pavement, I hear the gentle scratch and crinkle of artists doing rubbings.

On those quiet days, I do my easy runs.

But other days are not so peaceful.

Some days, when the membrane between the living and the dead is stretched so tightly it shimmers, I hear more than just the sounds of the living. Hearing not with my ears, but with my entire being.

I pick up the pace as the whispers of the dead reach me. Their voices rise along with my heart rate and the race begins. I run for my life as the screams of the dead merge with my own until blackness descends.

I wake to silence in a new cemetery. And again, I run. 

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The three-legged crow, the symbol of the Kumano Kodo

Cedar

By Jonathan Bing

Todd could identify every kind of tree in Tracy’s dad’s lumber yard by tasting it. Which one is

cedar, Todd? Blindfolded, he tasted the selection before him. This one. He was right. I tried a

hunk of scrap oak and a piece of pine. They both tasted like wood. I can’t tell the difference, I

said. Todd put his big hand on my shoulder. Both of those are pine.

I don’t know why anyone would need to identify trees by taste, but if anyone would have that

skill, it would be Todd.

You have a giant knife in your glove compartment, I said. You should, too, he replied. If you hit a deer, you need to follow it into the woods and slit its throat so it doesn’t suffer. I’ve thought for years about the knife that I don’t keep in my own glove compartment. I’ve never hit a deer, but if I did, it would run off among the tall cedar trees and suffer.

Todd ruined his favorite shirt driving from Minneapolis to Chicago in a blizzard. A minivan had

crossed the median on I-94 by Baraboo and hit his truck on the driver side. His femur went

through his hip. After the two vehicles stopped spinning, he reached back into his duffle and

pulled out the thing on top, his favorite dress shirt. He held it on his hip to staunch the bleeding.

The ambulance from Baraboo arrived and he said my dad’s name is Edward and he was a

medic in Vietnam. You need to call him before you do anything else, and he gave them

Edward’s number and passed out. The call saved Todd’s life because Edward knew they

needed to cath Todd first to make sure there wasn’t blood in his urine. Somehow Todd knew he needed more than a Baraboo EMT, he needed a Vietnam medic.

If Todd could have moved from where he had been pinned in his truck, he might have reached further back and grabbed the cedar moulding for the bathroom he was redoing. He could have made himself a splint and a pair of crutches while he was at it, and been standing by his truck when the ambulance arrived. He couldn’t move, of course. But if he had been able to, that would not have surprised anyone.

We been throwing frisbees and grilling burgers at Nerstrand Big Woods State Park. We all lay in the grass under the trees. Close your eyes, Todd said. You can tell which one is cedar just by listening. Otis laughed. Moir asked him what he was smoking. Dan said, no I bet you can.

Todd said, you can. Just think of their shape. That’ll tell you the noise it makes.

I didn’t know the shape of cedar trees. Or aspen. Or locust. Or linden. Or oak. Or maple. I didn’t know that tree listening was a skill I needed. Still, I listened. I could hear the one whose

branches sounded long and sharp. Some fluttered like paper. Another that rustled.

Otis hit Dan with the frisbee and Dan ran after him. Moir got up to pee.

Open your eyes, Todd said to me. It’s that one.

I still can’t taste wood. And I can’t tell one tree from another just by listening to it. But in the

many years since, the impossibly expansive locust with the delightfully small leaves has

become my very favorite. I love how lindens point to the sky. And I love the smell of cedar more than maybe anything else on the planet.

I may never be Todd, but I’m on the path.