The unending descent
- cherylmurfin
- Sep 23
- 5 min read
The final day of hiking took us the nine-ish miles from Koguchi to Kumano Nachi Taisha, the last of the three grand shrines on this path.
It was the image of the spectacular, red-tiered Seiganto-ji Temple, with its iconic pagoda offering a view of the majestic waterfall, that first hooked me on walking to Kumano Kodo. I envisioned monks chanting in lines, accompanied by the sounds of smells, bells, and drums, as a parade celebrated the arrival of pilgrims as they moved off the mountain into the Nachi Taisha complex. I'm embarrassed to say I even saw myself diving into the pool beneath the waterfall.
Reality did not reproduce my vision.
But first, you have to understand that before we arrived at the temple, there were SO MANY STEPS.
The closer we got (by my phone map calculation), the more excited I was to be finished, to feel the completion of an amazing journey and a significant challenge. The Dual Pilgrim shell meant nothing until we walked off that mountain. But by the final leg of the walk, each step brought with it a brutally painful downward pounding that exploded in my shins. Honestly, I'm not sure I even knew I had shins before this descent—they'd never given me a lick of trouble.
Still with the momentum and excitement and fine company to keep me going, I felt sure that just around every corner were the last rocky steps.
The conversation went like this:
"The map says we're almost there!"
Down, down, down. More down. Down rocky uneven steps.
"Almost there, see?" (I shove the phone under Joe's nose)
Down, down, down, down, down, down...
"Is something wrong with my phone? Maybe I'm not getting any signal."
More down. So much down. Heavy down.
"Did you check your phone?? (Me incredulous that he hadn't. Me demanding he bring the end to my shinny misery.
More steps. Always steps. Ridiculous steps. Steep steps.
Screaming shins.
"Ok, this has to be it. It has to be. I can't take any more. I can't feel my feet..."
But no.
"WTF!? WILL THESE STEPS EVER END?"
I should say that despite the pain, this last portion of the trail was stunning, if not more stunning, than the rest combined. Misty rays burst through trees, giving the path an ethereal glow and the rocks a wetted brilliance.
All. The. Way. DOWN.
Finally, the last step came, and we found ourselves in the shrine complex. The impossibly quiet complex where no drums beat, no monks sang, and no door was open. It was completely closed for the day.
We walked to the railing, caught a 10-second glimpse of the temple and falls, and then proceeded to continue down 267 (which felt like 1,000) more stairs to the street to make our way to our hotel.
We'd get up early, we said. We'd go to the temple, we'd climb those final 467 steps to actually see it properly, and crawl back down them like real pilgrims.
Friends, I believe in total honesty.
Which is why I must confess we did not return. We slept in, temple be damned, enjoyed our last onsen, had our last delicious, locally sourced breakfast, and waved at the temple and its lovely waterfall from the two taxis that drove us out of the mountain village to a train heading to Tokyo.
Luckily, there are perfect images of the temple online.
I've plucked one for my memory book, not to pretend I went to the very end of the Kumano Kodo, but as a reminder that when I return (which I will), I still have 467 steps (nearly 1,000 up and down) to go.
Needling (haiku)
Roots, like thread, stitching
Round Rocks like beads needled in place
A forrest, sewing
—CM
Each drop and ocean (tanka)
Rain flows down the path
I walk alone and with you
Each drop an ocean
Each rock a wave we float over
These trees, the boat that carries us
—CM
Clay and Courage: What do I leave behind on the Kumano Kodo?
by Tracy Wiese
The first time she made something out of clay (well, something that was recognizable), it was George Washington’s face, and the clay was actually wet sand from her bratty little brother’s abandoned sandbox.
It was a warm summer night, right before the truck came; the sort of truck that made her mouth go dry. The kind that would take her family to another town, another house, another school. She had contested this move; she’d just celebrated her twelfth birthday with four girls at her party. Four was a record; the most friends she’d ever have.
The cicadas in the trees were the only creatures to see her great sandy George, because she smashed him when she heard the semi’s diesel engine rumble into the neighborhood. Time to say goodbye.
It went like that many times more. As an adult, she would say the moves were good for her. She could make small talk with anyone. She was good with change and new places. Good at being on her own, even if she didn’t want to be. In high school, her counselor told her parents that she was brave, but worried she was a bit of a loner, and more than a bit perfectionist.
She knew she was hard to get close to. She didn’t like saying goodbye. Better not to get too close.
The next time she made something out of clay was in college. She had sculpted her own head, part of a ridiculous assignment in her art class — one that came with a requirement that it look as realistic as possible. It was the 80s. The hair on her “her” was so heavy that in the kiln, caused the replica of her to look as if it was searching the sky. She got an A, not because the sculpture was any good, but because of what her professor said was a hairstyle achievement — and a nearly translucent skin tone. She brought the head home at spring break, right before her parents moved to house number nine. To move the sculpture was ridiculous. She and her mom giggled as they watched the garbage man open the lid on pick-up day to a perfectly positioned head of a forlorn young woman. His screech surprised all three of them. Her mom ran out to the curb with a 20 dollar bill as an apologetic tip.
The last time she made something out of clay was at an oceanside hotel in Japan, on the first day of a writer’s retreat. The assignment was about what she carried into the trip, which to her was familiar: courage. She could zip overseas, and do this crazy hike. She could sleep in strange places, relish the new, embrace the adventure. But what she wanted to do was bring her softness, her vulnerability — find creativity where business had blotted it out. Find connection with new friends from her new city. She set to work making a clay lion, so that she could leave it behind in a waste basket in the lobby. She would not bring cold, calculated strength. She would bring openness. A touch of gentleness and anxiety. And, hope
The price (haiku)
Why is each step hard?
Rock stairs raise up everywhere
The price for pilgrims
—CM
Earned (haiku)
Onsen, I love you
Your heat a rush I have earned
With my feet and years
—CM
Comments