Solitude & Freezing Cold Feet
I’m on an early morning train, stealing glances at the young woman sitting diagonally across from me. Purple sneakers with thick white soles; jeans, artificially faded (you can just tell); a black down coat to match her hair, tickling her shoulders in time with the movement of our car. Her face is buried in a lavender scarf; I can only see her eyes, at the same time bright and lost in thought.
I find it interesting, looking at strangers. You never know in any meaningful sense where they are coming from or where they’re going. We can guess, but we’ll never know how right or wrong we are.
As if aware of my thoughts the girl lifts her eyes to mine. Her face remains hidden in her scarf, her body as unmoving as her glance is deep. In the window behind her the mountains and the valley drift by in the muted blues and grays of dawn.
Togakushi is still two hours and one bus ride away. The weather during the six or seven hours I’ll be hiking is impossible to predict. Nature can be fickle four thousand feet up.
As if suddenly bored with the view our train leans into the hills and slips into a tunnel. For a minute the world is black. When the light returns I can see nothing out my window but pines dusted white and the contoured hints of a snowed-over river. Save for our train and the tracks disappearing into the powder ahead the world of man has ceased to exist.
I glance over again. The girl’s eyes have turned away.
The
name Togakushi comes from a Shinto legend involving the sun goddess Amaterasu,
creator of ancient Japan. Her brother Susanoo, the god of the seas, having failed
in a bid to take over his sister’s heavenly realm, flew into a rage that so
embarrassed Amaterasu that she hid herself in the stone cave of Ama-no-Iwato, throwing
the world into darkness and chaos.
In an attempt to lure Amaterasu out of hiding the god Ame-no-yagokoro-omoikane brought the pantheon of Shinto deities together for a festival, held right outside Ama-no-Iwato. The goddess Ame-no-uzume performed a lewd dance that drew laughter from the other gods, and when Amaterasu peeked out from her hiding place to see what was going on the god Ame-no-tajikarao grabbed the stone door to the cave and flung it away, restoring light to the world.
That
stone landed in northern Nagano, forming the mountains of Togakushi, which
means “hiding door”.
Our bus
is steadily winding and climbing, northwest away from the now-unseen city of
Nagano. Icicles two and three meters long hang like daggers from the eaves of snow-bound
homes. Amoebic fields, built into the contours of the sloping earth and buried
for the season, pass by our shoulders then fall away below as we groan up through
another long curve. Narrow pines with pencil-point tips stand tall and close
together, decorated in clumps of snow as if rehearsing for a Christmas scene.
Aside from the road, the world lies blanketed in white; side streets,
driveways, rooftops, porches – all of it, making me wonder what I’ll be hiking
through all day.
The ride to Hoko-sha, the first of the Five Shrines of Togakushi, is a few minutes shy of an hour. For centuries people walked to this area, from Zenkoji Temple in Nagano and places much further beyond. Theirs was an arduous spiritual endeavor, a pilgrimage undertaken in sandals made of straw. Meanwhile I’m sitting on this bus, warming my feet by the heating vents under the seat in front of me.
Developed in 7th Century Japan, Shugendo is a mix of Shinto mountain worship, Buddhist thought, Taoist tenets, and various other local beliefs, philosophies and rituals. The name Shugendo conveys the idea that the way to enlightenment involves rigorous trials of both body and mind.
The
mountains of Togakushi, marked by harsh winters, forbidding terrain, and
natural caves must have seemed a veritable gift from the gods for those seeking
the Shugendo version of wisdom. Here was a place for the mountain ascetics,
known as yamabushi, to test their will; to isolate themselves from society. To walk
that path to enlightenment.
From there I’m not sure what they did.
At Hoko-sha I’m the only one to get off the half-empty bus. This sort of thing happens to me a lot.
The steps up to the shrine are buried in snow. From the bottom of the first staircase I can't even see the shrine, just the wooden torii gate and the forest and a whole lot of white. A woman in a long black coat and dress boots clambers doggedly, almost desperately upward, using her hands almost as much as her feet. Step by awkward step she inches forward until she stumbles over the top and disappears. Perhaps she has not come here to seek out what these shrines might offer, but is instead merely stopping by on her way somewhere else.
Higher up, cedars stand over the snow-covered steps with such stately girth they could themselves be gods. Walking among them, I feel that I could want no more from the day. As I reach the top I see the woman in black walking toward me. She passes by silently, head down.
Hoko-sha,
last rebuilt in 1861, is the oldest extant structure among the five shrines. Originally
a Buddhist temple, its intricate wood carvings also make it the most ornate. Inside,
occupying the space in front of the tatami prayer room, is a stage for performances
of the Kagura dance, a reenactment of Ame-no-Uzume’s dance at Ama-no-Iwato.
Hoko-sha marks the beginning of the Togakushi Kodo, the path connecting the Five Shrines of Togakushi. The trail from Hoko-sha through the woods past Hinomiko-sha up to Chu-sha is called the Kanmichi, or “The Way of the Gods”. (The characters used to write Kanmichi, 神道, are the same as those comprising the word Shinto, the name of Japan’s indigenous religion, also defined as The Way of the Gods.)
Every seven years the people of Togakushi carry a miniature shrine on their shoulders, from Hoko-sha, along the Kanmichi, and up to Chu-sha, in a festival called the Shikinen-taisai. Hoko-sha enshrines the deity Ame-no-Uwaharu, son of Ame-no-Yagokoro, enshrined at Chu-sha. Thus the festival symbolizes the meeting of father and son.
Staring at the unvarnished beauty of Hoko-sha, a thought I once had while gazing at the beauty of a church in Luzern, Switzerland comes back to me. The greatest of man’s architectural achievements are not the palaces they build for their kings but the temples they build for their gods.
My last visit to Togakushi was a hit-and-run tourism assignment that left no time for a walk through these woods. Today I’d move as I pleased, answering to no one but myself, urged on by nothing but the inevitability of the setting sun – and the conversations of the people now destroying, however innocently, the silence of Hoko-sha.
A single set of footprints tells me that only one other person has followed the Kanmichi into the woods since the last snowfall, or maybe several snowfalls. As the chatter drifting up from Hoko-sha fades and disappears, that unparalleled feeling of solitude returns. Though I know it to be foolish, I ask the gods to keep it this way for the rest of the day.
At the same time I hear myself giving thanks to the person who has gone before me, leaving their footprints, helping me get through the knee-deep snow.
Suddenly, inexplicably, those footprints make an abrupt right turn into the woods where, according to a half-buried sign, there is a side trail. It seems to lead nowhere but the road, far below through the trees.
You really never know where people are headed.
Plowing ahead, my boots swallowing more snow with each step, I think of men in straw sandals walking these woods a thousand winters ago.
Searching in vain for the bird I can hear calling out from the treetops overhead I almost miss the wooden post at my feet. Hinomiko-sha is right down through the woods, it reads. Just three minutes on foot. No doubt it takes a bit more during the snowless months but they left that part out.
The path approaches Hinomiko-sha not from the front but from one rear corner, as if cutting through the enshrined god’s backyard. That the Kanmichi would not lead past the front of Hinomiko-sha makes sense considering that making this pilgrimage, walking this path, was a Buddhist endeavor. And unlike Hoko-sha and Chu-sha, which were once Buddhist temples, Hinomiko-sha has from its beginning always been a Shinto shrine. For the yamabushi making the trek to the temples of Togakushi, stopping off at Hinomiko-sha would be like checking out a martini bar during a pub crawl. Kind of in the same universe but a completely different beast.
After the elaborate façade of Hoko-sha, Hinomiko-sha presents as a modest affair. Established in 1098, it enshrines the diety Ama-no-uzume, the god of dance, fire, and entertainment – the same god whose dancing coaxed Amaterasu to peek out of her hiding place, allowing Ame-no-tajikarao to cast away her stone door.
Like Hoko-sha, Hinomiko-sha is surrounded by tall, venerable cedars. Just behind and to the left of the shrine is the Otome-sugi, the “husband and wife cedars”, forever joined at their feet. They are estimated to be 500 years old.
On a side note, this seems about how long I’ve been joined to my own wife.
In front of the shrine is a set of no more than forty stone steps; not nothing, but much less than Hoko-sha. And very much like Hoko-sha, these steps were covered over with snow. At the bottom stands a stone (cement?) torii gate. A few feet in front of that graceful, symbolic separation of the world of man and the realm of the gods, cars whine up and down Route 36.
I pause at the front steps of Hinomiko-sha, to thank Ama-no-uzume for her lewd dance. Without it this place would not exist as it does, and I would almost certainly not have felt compelled to come walk here.
And
yeah, the world would still be dark.
On the way back to the Kanmichi I encounter a young man, offering a greeting as we pass each other. His answer is a mere silent nod. I don’t quite know how to feel about that, so I decide I would feel nothing.
Chu-sha
(in what has become a noticeable pattern) sits
at the top of a long set of stone steps, surrounded by numerous cypress. Some
of these trees are over seven hundred years old. Three are touted as being more
than eight hundred. Inside the front entrance to the shrine is a raised square platform
which, as with Hoko-sha, serves as a stage for the monthly reenactment of the
Kagura dance. On the ceiling above is a painting of a dragon, drawn by Kawanabe
Kyosai, son of a Koga samurai and, unofficially, Japan’s first political
caricaturist, officially thrown in jail several times for his work.
Togakushi doesn’t have a town square, but there’s sort of a triangle in front of Chu-sha’s torii. Across the way is the visitor center, where information can be obtained and snowshoes can be rented. With the feeling in my toes fast fading into the frozen netherworld I feel compelled to suggest they set up a snowshoe rental annex down near Hoko-sha.
The path leading away from Chu-sha has two sets of fresh-packed snowshoe tracks. I step gingerly, hoping they’ll hold me, but after taking three steps and sinking three times knee-deep into the snow I give up. I’m sweating through my shirt by the time the trail dumps me out onto a quiet and cleanly-plowed road.
There’s no sign of a trail on the other side. Over to the right, about as far as I can chuck a snow-filled boot, a side road runs off in a direction I am more or less sure I want to go. A hand-written note stapled to a signpost warns that up ahead this side road is snowed over, unfit for anyone not on snowshoes or skis.
If those yamabushi could do it in straw sandals I could do it in $150 hiking boots.
The guy who plowed this side road had gone only as far as absolutely necessary to allow the people living along that road to get their cars out. Mission accomplished he evidently backed out and went home, leaving a mountain of snow in the middle of the road to mark the occasion.
On the other side of Mt. Plow the path and the snowshoe tracks and the knee-deep powder resume. More of the same. It’s becoming tedious. Still beautiful, but even eating nothing but chocolate ice cream for days on end can eventually get old. Not that I’ve tried.
Quite suddenly the tedium evaporates as I notice the rugged, rocky, snow-packed Togakushi Mountains peeking through the trees in front of me.
They’d been there all this time. Why did it take me until now to see them?
A (fake?) wooden post sticking out of the snow tells me the entrance to the Oku-sha Sando, the path leading up to Oku-sha Shrine, is less than a kilometer away. The cold air licks at my cheeks. In places, the sky is a milky blue. I feel like if I tale my boots off I’ll see not feet but flippers.
The Oku-sha
Sando runs for two kilometers, through forest that has for centuries been
considered sacred ground. Halfway along stands Zuijinmon Gate, painted red, its
roof of straw covered with moss. Zuijinmon originally housed Nio, the twin
guardian deities of Buddha. It now holds the Shinto warrior-guardian deities
known as Zuijin.
Beyond the Zuijinmon the path to Oku-sha is lined with several hundred cryptomeria japonica, a species of cypress endemic to Japan, often referred to as Japanese cedars. Since being planted four hundred years ago these trees, along with the surrounding forest, have been left entirely to Nature and the gods.
The sando was intentionally laid out to allow the morning sun to shine in a straight line through the forest twice a year, on ritto and risshun, Japan’s traditional first days of winter and spring. The trees themselves were planted to make this place heaven every day.
I think it was John Muir who, in reference to Yosemite, said something like “The beauty of this place will be its demise.” In other words, the countless people who go to see its beauty will manage, in their unthinking fervor, to destroy it. Aside from the two hundred parking spaces flanking the road near the entrance to the sando, this place has so far managed to maintain its magic. Still, I wish these people tripping over their own snowshoes would go the hell home, they’re ruining my pictures.
I shouldn’t say that. Togakushi in winter is pure magic, so the scant few people who have come to this achingly beautiful slice of the planet today – on a Saturday, no less – give no credence to my complaints. And really, I have to admit that the image of a figure or two walking among these giant cedars lends added perspective to, and appreciation of, their tremendous size.
Now if only these people could wear those white pilgrim outfits instead of bright North Face down jackets.
For a time Kenko-ji Temple possessed aspects of both Buddhism and Shinto. With the ordered separation of the two religions at the beginning of the Meiji Era, Kenko-ji was stripped of its Buddhist elements and reestablished as the Shinto shrine Oku-sha. Enshrined here is Ame-no-tajikarao, the god who grabbed the stone from Ama-no-Iwato where Amaterasu was hiding and threw it here to create these mountains.
Steps away from Chu-sha is Kuzuryu-sha, the most ancient of the Togakushi shrines. It originally stood inside a cave that was believed to be the home of Kuzuryu, whose name means “Nine-Headed Dragon”. As Kuzuryu is the Shinto god of rainfall and water, this shrine was where people living in Togakushi would come to pray for continued and abundant rain, Though no longer standing inside its cave, Kuzuryu-sha remains shrouded in mystery as it is not known when it came into being.
A side note on Togakushi: In winter, the snow around Kuzuryu-sha is so deep it is possible to suddenly find yourself walking on the roof of a storage garage.
While Oku-sha marks the end of the Kodo, there’s plenty more to explore. One trail leads from the side of Kuzuryu-sha into the forest and up to the top and along the ridge of the Togakushi Mountains. Sketchy even in summer, the climb can be suicidal in winter. I’m not going to try it, especially in flippers.
Back
down near Zuijinmon lie a couple of nice, flat, non-deadly alternatives. From
the sando a path leads north to the Togakushi Campground and more trails up
more mountains. The southern path winds through the forest to a man-made lake
and an encompassing view of the Togakushi Range. This was how I’d end my day. A
pilgrimage to the campground and mountain trails sounds much more appealing in the
warmer months.
Along this southern path I encounter few people. Most of those I do greet are wearing snowshoes or skis. This trail, however, requires no special gear. All I need at this point is a little yamabushi spirit as my wet, freezing feet are now demanding we go home.
Kagami-ike Lake was created to aid the people endeavoring to farm this land – not for rice, but for soba. For centuries soba was the staple Togakushi meal, for pilgrims and denizens alike, served in doughy balls rather than the noodles most people would recognize today. And today there are numerous opportunities in Togakushi to feast on some local soba, served on plates made from the stalks of a special kind of broadleaf bamboo and crafted in the local takezaiku method of bamboo-weaving.
In autumn the hordes descend on Kagami-ike, to view the Togakushi Range and the fall colors of the forest reflected in the water. On this winter day there are a mere handful of us, taking in the blues and whites of the world from atop the frozen lake. One woman decides to lay down in the snow and start making snow angels. Right in front of me. While I am standing there with my camera out, Poised for the perfect shot.
Her friends come over and start taking pictures of her. What fun. I count to ten and start clearing my throat.
The sun is drifting closer toward the peaks to the southwest. I don’t have far to go from here but the way home passes through more forest, and if I make a wrong turn or lose the snowed-over trail (something I’d already proven I could do) things could get interesting.
The shadows of the trees cast by the late afternoon sun are so long I can’t see where they end. The path winds up and down and left and right, for longer than I was expecting. It leads me to a wooden shelter at the edge of a small lake – and vanishes into the untouched powder.
Having regained the trail I pass a couple in their sixties. They are, by all indication, no longer enjoying their cross-country ski expedition. They return my quiet greeting and catch their breath and get back to grumbling out loud, to and at each other.
I see no one the rest of the way through the woods. At a high point along the trail, with a wide view of the mountains from southeast to southwest, I can see Mt. Fuji. Navigating the back streets of Togakushi village I encounter only two other people. I nod to them, in simple affirmation of our shared existence in this moment in place and time. They nod in return, though only after a discernible pause. They’re probably wondering if we know each other. And if we don’t, why I should be nodding at them.
I stumble quite by accident out onto Route 36. To my left, just out of sight, sits Chu-sha. To my right, a paved and winding walk back to Hoko-sha and the bus back to Nagano. Part of me wants to turn back down those side streets and find the Kanmichi. Trudge back through the snow. Finish the hike as I started it, along the way of the gods.
But time is growing short. And god my feet are cold.
From the window of the bus I watch the pale blue sky and the pure white snow slowly blend into gray.
Solitude in beautiful places can be rejuvenating. Therapeutic. Transformational even. Just ask those yamabushi. Yet there is value in sharing that solitude; with loved ones, because we love them, but also with strangers. Seeing and appreciating beauty is human, and encountering strangers out in the middle of this beautiful world reminds us that the desire to seek out beauty is alive and well among us. That humanity in this form remains, wherever we all are coming from or heading to.
Solitude, then, does not necessarily mean being the only one in a place. Passing another on a trail and exchanging simple greetings, or trading helpful words about the trails we’ve just walked – I see this as contributing to the allure of solitude, even as it interrupts it, because it is there we see a reflection of our values, of our appreciation of this world. And a shared recognition that, for now, we need nothing more.
The ascetics who came here, to live in solitude in caves and in harsh conditions – were they seeking complete solitude from humanity? Did they believe no one could mirror their own values, or see the same beauty they saw? Or were they seeking to clarify their own values, their own view of a world that might be beautiful if seen with clear eyes?
I’m not about to go hide in a cave. But that internal view of the outside world is, I think, why I am out here.
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