Slices of Life from a Cake Hunter

Day 5, the final day of the Kumano. We went into this day with a feeling of trepidation, although Trepidation wasn’t too happy and told us to leave him alone. We knew today was going to be our biggest challenge, and it was in many ways – the sheer ascent we faced seemed ginormous (as you can see in the route below):

It was a real ‘gulp, and let’s do it’ moment, and so off we went and (no spoilers) did it, but my god, there were more steps than in the 1990s singles charts.

As we’d had the unexpected 400-m ascent the day before, and the first day on the Kumano, the mud-wrestling schermozzle, we’d had some training and the bonus (if you can call it that) was that it was a sheer 200-m up for the 1st km, then a plateau for the next km, before the real effort of the 500-m/4-km stretch. The plateau was the bonus.

Ok, I’ll just go through briefly what it’s like to climb a little bugger of a trail like this. Having good hiking boots and trekking poles are a real essential: the boots to have a good grip, and with ankle support to mitigate against rolling and spraining, and the poles to provide stability and use your upper body strength to support the lower. Some people don’t use poles and they are usually either the very experienced or the very stupid. If you don’t use poles and you’re inexperienced then you not only put yourself in danger, but others too and that’s not sensible, it’s not clever and (in the worst-case scenario) it can be life-threatening. This kind of hike isn’t the toughest you can do, it’s quite moderate really, but even so not taking it seriously is a real black mark in my book.

As you start going up, your attention shifts from the views around you to the views in front: the rocks and roots, the avenues up between them, the mossy stones, any water running down. All can be to your advantage or disadvantage as you navigate upwards. Each step is a new step, and each step seems to have already passed by the time you make it. Your breath gets shorter, your attention more focused, focused down more than anything, although you’re looking up regularly to see what’s ahead, twisty-turny or straight, leaves and ferns, roots and more roots, stones awkwardly jumbled, waterlogged mud-pools with soggy edges; using them to propel yourself onwards.

Sweating starts early, and I’m a sweater. Within minutes my t-shirt is soaked through, which is good, as I’m hot and it cools me down. Minutes more and my t-shirt sweats with my sweat, little translucent tears bubbling through cloth, soaking my skin in my own thirsty salt. Within a half an hour, sweat has tsunamied me – I’m soaked from neck to knees, my muscles settling into a rhythm: right foot, left arm, left foot, right arm; both feet, both poles, one pole, one foot, another pole, another foot. And up we go, and up and up and up and up and up and up. Neverending, panting, sweating, stepping, poles out, poles in, avoid that rock, launch from that root, avoid that mud, watch that stream, who’s ahead, someone behind, what twist is coming, how high are we?

So the rhythm rides you, the path rides you, the Kumano rides you. You’re one of many, one person on a pilgrimage that goes back centuries. Ghosts lie in these trees, stories lie under the paths. The shrines can speak tales, but they’re silent to all except your hopes, and the secrets of your dreams. There are brief, hurried ‘hellos’ and ‘see ya’s’ to others passing by, you passing them or them passing you, and you’ll converge again on another twist of the track as they or you sweat against a tree, tugging on your water, waterfalling down your throat. Camaraderie is in the air: we’re all pilgrims here.

Above all, above everything, is the dominating, staggering forest. It commands us, dictates to us, silences us. It’s everything now. The weight of its deep shades, the jaded ferns that dance through light, dark emerald pines shadowing into dusty browns and dying greys. The silence, a deep impenetrable softening of sound lighted only by the chirping of lone birds or a transient hiker. It’s a slow burn, that lack of sound, as occasional rippling winds catch at clawed branches. The forest conquers the froth and the bubbles, the light and the loss. It stamps itself, not a bath but a birth. It rebirths you, the forest, as it always has and here amongst the shrines and lost tea-houses, and stories of unremembered days, you feel the weight of this land, this path, this trail. Like a leaf, you blew here; like a leaf you’re blowing away.

Mountains have long been seen as places where the boundary between this
world and the next is blurred, and so with little surprise, we pilgrims on the Kumano found ourselves passing through the Abode of the Dead. The tales are that as the pilgrim
safely descends from Funami-toge Pass to more level ground, they start to relax. The wind changes, or perhaps a mist rises, and they see a figure coming toward them on the path far ahead. As the figure approaches, the pilgrim realises it is a deceased friend or relative. But when they acknowledge the figure, or speak to it, it vanishes. In some accounts, the pilgrim meets a person they believe to be alive. When they return
home, however, they discover the person had already passed away at the time of their
encounter. The pilgrim had, in fact, met a soul on its way to ring a temple bell before moving on to the next world.

In my mind, a figure arose from my past, unbidden. I spoke with them, walking with them, resting with them, a path opening ahead. I thought back to Day 1 on the Kumano, where we saw mist smoking up like gently waving ghosts, and wondered … how it means to be greeted, and then, how we say farewell.

The end, as always, was there waiting. It’s a patient thing, as ends always are. Like the end of a book, a poem, a blog, the last words are written already. They’re just waiting for you to find, and at the end of the Kumano we found the most magnificent of temples, and a living deity, a waterfall cascading down from evergreen primeval forest.

Blessings Kumano. Until we meet again.

世界は一つ。私たちは同じ