Walking Amid Michelin Green Guide Star-Winning Beauty

I recently had the privilege of climbing Mount Haguro in northeastern Japan. The forest walk has been given 3 stars by the Michelin Green Guide, and it did not disappoint. Please allow me to share my journey with you.

Background

Mount Haguro is one of three sacred mountains known as the Dewa Sanzan, 出羽三山, meaning the three mountains of Dewa — the old name for Yamagata and Akita Prefectures. Climbing these mountains has been considered a pilgrimage of spiritual rebirth for centuries.

Each mountain in the Dewa Sanzan represents an aspect of cosmic time that pilgrims face. Mount Gassan is where we ask forgiveness for past wrongs and encounter our ancestors. Mount Haguro is where we overcome the troubles of the present world. And Mount Yudono is where we confront our future selves.

A little history

In the 6th century, Prince Hachiko, the son of the 32nd emperor of Japan, left the capital in Nara. His father, Emperor Sushin, had been assassinated, and his cousin, the influential and powerful Shotoku Taishi, advised him that discretion was the better part of valor. Hachiko accepted this advice and, difficult though it must have been, quietly left the capital.

Legend tells us that Hachiko then traveled the country, healing those wherever he went by magically absorbing their sufferings. The more hardships he took upon himself, the more disfigured he became. Yet Prince Hachiko, without concern for his earthly appearance, kept on.

Eventually, he was led to Mount Haguro by a three-legged crow. 

In a quintessential mix of Buddhism and Shinto, Prince Hachiko set up a monastery to practice Buddhism and to worship the Shinto kami of the three mountains. There he remained, teaching and healing, until his death in 641.

From the time Buddhism reached Japan in the 6th century, there was a peaceful syncretism of Buddhism with Shinto. Buddhist gods were considered manifestations of Shinto kami, and many temples and shrines shared the same grounds — some buildings even served as both Buddhist temples and Shinto shrines.

In 1868, as a means of weakening the wealth and power of Buddhist sects and to bring greater respect to the authority of the newly installed Emperor Meiji, himself a Shinto god, the government ordered the division of Buddhism and Shintoism. Temples, statues, bells, and sutras were destroyed in a frenzy of attack by Shinto nationalists. Many Buddhist priests were forced to leave the priesthood; others chose to become Shinto priests.

From that time, Buddhist images were removed from Mount Haguro. 

Climbing Mount Haguro

After consulting bus and train schedules, I took an 8:22 train from Niigata City and reached the charming city of Tsuruoka, in Yamagata Prefecture, in plenty of time to catch the 10:41 bus. The next bus was 90 minutes later, so careful planning was essential.

I had a pleasant ride past beautiful countryside with the awesome snow-covered Mount Chokai to the north providing the backdrop. After about 40 minutes, the bus drove through an enormous torii gate, along a narrow road fronting Shukubo shrine lodgings, and arrived at the foot of Mount Haguro.

My lodging for the night was easy to find.

I rang the bell at the shrine where I was going to stay and dropped off my bag. The innkeeper, the Shinto priest’s wife, visibly relaxed when she realized that the foreigner staying with her that night could speak Japanese. I thanked her for keeping my suitcase, bid her goodbye, and headed to the hiking trail.

It was 11:30 and the weather was glorious.

I bowed and passed under the torii gate, symbolizing my entry into the sacred realm of Mount Haguro, a Shinto kami. Then I approached the next gate.

The vermillion Zuishinmon Gate was previously guarded by two Buddhist Nio warriors and had been called the Niomon Gate. These statues were moved to safety and hidden during the anti-Buddhist frenzy. Today, they can be viewed at the Shozen-in Temple, a 15-minute walk from their former home. 

This gate marks the beginning of the 2,446 stone steps that lead to the summit.

In 1648, the 50th chief priest of the Dewa Sanzan, Tenyu Betto, laid the thousands of stones that lead from the vermillion gate to the mountaintop Sanjin Gosaiden shrine. It took him 13 years. Along the way, he carved 33 different Buddhist symbols into the stones. If you can find them all, it is said your prayers will assuredly be answered.

I think I found a few.

The path first leads downhill to a group of simple wooden shrines.

Then it takes us across the red, arched Shinkyo Bridge that had marked the border across which no women could pass until the 19th-century changes. To the right is the 400-year-old, man-made Suga-no-Taki waterfall, also credited to Tenyu Betto.

Soon, I meet the 1,000-year-old cedar tree affectionately called Jiji-sugi, or “Grandfather Cedar.” This majestic tree stands near the 600-year-old Go-jū-no-toh, or Five-Story Pagoda. This amazing work of architecture was originally built by none other than Taira no Masakado in the 930s. You may remember Masakado as one of Japan’s Three Most Infamous Vengeful Ghosts. 

The Go-jū-no-toh was built without using any nails. It features a large earthquake-resistant pendulum in the center which allows the building to gently and loosely sway like a snake during tremors. Its design has inspired modern techniques for constructing earthquake-proof buildings and towers, such as the 634 meter Tokyo Sky Tree. 

The current pagoda dates from 1372 when it was rebuilt by Daihoji Masauji, the chief priest of Mount Haguro. It is all that remains of a temple complex that surrounded it until the 1870s when the buildings were destroyed. Fortunately for us, the Go-jū-no-toh was rechristened as a Shinto shrine before then.

As Yamagata is deep in Japan’s snow country, each winter workers climb up inside the pagoda to sweep off the snow that accumulates on the roofs. 

After taking time to admire these awe-inspiring sights, I head up the long staircase sided by hundreds of 400-year-old cryptomeria cedar trees.

Walking through this beautiful forest, filled with the fragrance of cedar trees and joyous birdsong, I cannot think of a nicer way to spend a day.

I pass many small wooden shrines, then come upon unusual trees wrapped in a shimenawa rope, signifying that they are sacred. 

Originally two trees, through the years they reached out to each other and are now collectively known as Meoto-sugi, “The Couple Tree.” A wooden sign nearby tells us that those who hug this tree will be blessed with children.

There are three slopes along this path, each marked by a stone monument, and I have reached the third. 

I pass a shrine dedicated to the kami, Haniya-Hime no Mikoto, who was created from the feces of the creator goddess, Izanami-no-Mikoto. (I’m not making this up.) Those looking for the divine blessing of lasting relationships come here to pray.

Soon, I reach the top of the mountain, welcomed by another torii gate.

Exploring the mountaintop

I’ve climbed the 2,445 stone steps that lead from the Zuishinmon Gate to the 414 meter-high summit of Mount Haguro. I bow and enter the grounds where all three deities of the Dewa Sanzan are enshrined.

The first thing that catches my eye is a magnificent wooden shrine, a marvel of craftsmanship. It is the Itsukushima Shrine dedicated to the three deities of Munakata (in Fukuoka), and was once shared with Benzaiten, their Buddhist equivalent. These deities are incarnations of the god of water and all that flows, and they are crucial to this island nation as providers of the bounties from the sea. 

Among myriad intricate carvings are two dragons, one adorning each front pillar. Unlike the Western concept of dragons, these are helpful and wingless creatures. One is climbing up the pillar, symbolizing our struggles to attain Buddhahood through the continuous cycle of birth, death, and rebirth.

The other dragon descends, signifying its intention to come to earth and help aid the salvation of all living things.

No one knows when this building was constructed.

I pass the shrine to Prince Hachiko, then go up a few steps to pay my respects at the Sanjin-Gosaiden Shrine. This striking cedar structure was built in 1818, and it has an impressive 2.1 meter thick thatched roof, the thickest in Japan.

The gods of each of the Dewa Sanzan — Mount Haguro, Mount Gassan, and Mount Yudono — are enshrined within. This is the only mountaintop accessible all year round, so pilgrims can pay homage to all three deities here.

In front of the shrine is a pond called Kagami-ike, Mirror Pond. Although it beautifully reflects the shrine, this is not the source of its name.

In the early 20th century, the pond was drained. Over 600 ornate, bronze mirrors were recovered from its muddy bottom. Worshippers are thought to have used the mirrors as vehicles for their prayers and tossed them into the pond. Today, those mirrors have traveled as far as the British Museum and the Smithsonian Institute. Nearly 200 are on display in the nearby Dewa Sanzan Historical Museum, which, unfortunately, was closed when I visited.

Beside the pond is an ancient bell. As Shinto shrines do not usually have bells, this one is clearly a remnant of the days when Buddhism flourished in Dewa Sanzan.

The bronze bell weighs 10 tons, the 3rd largest in Japan. It was donated by the regent Hojo Tokimune as thanks for prayers offered for victory during the Mongol invasions of 1274 and 1281.

The thatched roof belfry was built in 1617, replacing the former structure that was destroyed during a typhoon.

This bell is rung only once a year, on December 31. Imagine the reverberations that echo across the mountains.

Among the other shrines on the mountaintop is Tōshō Shrine, dedicated to the deified first shogun of the Edo era, Tokugawa Ieyasu.

Another is the Reisaiden, a shrine built to house ancestral spirits. There is a spectacular painting of a dragon on the ceiling of its entranceway and a collection of Buddhist sculptural masterpieces in the building beside it. No photography is allowed.

Beside Reisaiden is a small cemetery with some unusual clothed gravestones.

Along the east side of the mountaintop, sits a row of small shrines. One of these stood out because of its collection of footwear. It is the Kensumimi Shrine, dedicated to Kamo-Taketsu-Numi no Mikoto, who, according to legend, is the kami who was incarnated as the three-legged crow.

People visit the shrine and offer footwear imbued with prayers for safe travels and healing and strength for their legs.

The climb down

After paying my respects at the modest imperial grave of Prince Hachiko, I head back to the torii gate to begin my descent.

Along the way is a sign tempting me to explore the Minami-Dani, which means southern valley. Despite the “Watch out for Bears” sign, I brave the unused trail. About 500 meters into the woods I come to a clearing that once held a temple where the great poet, Matsuo Basho, stayed while on his famous “Narrow Road to the Deep North” poetic journey in the 17th century.

There was not much left of the pond or the gazebo, but the walk is beautiful.

Back on the main path, I come across construction at a tea house. I peek into the grounds before one of the workers kindly tells me he would “appreciate me not entering.” I see enough to know that the rebuilt tea house will afford a fantastic view of the vast Shonai plains below.

Shukubo shrine stay

The innkeeper greets me at the door of the shrine lodging and shows me to my room. It is a huge 12 mat room, twice the size of a typical single room.

“Wow, this room is huge!” This is an unexpected surprise.

“You’re a foreigner, so I thought you would like a big room.”

I do!

She takes me down the hall to show me the shared bath and toilets, then back to show me the small room where my meals would be served. We agree on a 6:00 dinner, and she leaves me to wash up and relax.

Innkeepers in Japan prefer to serve dinner early, as the meals are rather elaborate, and they appreciate having plenty of time to clean up before they go to bed.

I bathe, put on the yukata robe the innkeeper provided, and before I know it, dinner is served.

It’s a feast of wild mountain vegetables and various types of tofu, including a house specialty, sesame tofu. This type of cuisine was developed in the Kamakura era by Zen monks and is called shojin-ryori.

Although Dewa Sanzan became Shinto in 1869, shojin-ryori continued to be served and adapted. Enjoying shojin-ryori is an important part of any visit to the Dewa Sanzan.

After a peaceful sleep in that quiet room between comfortable and warm futons, I wake up refreshed.

I again visit the Jiji-sugi “Grandfather Cedar” and the Go-jū-no-toh. I see many people cleaning, and learn that the mountain is cleaned one day each year.

I visit the two shrines between my inn and the Zuishinmon Gate. One is called the Tenchikon Shrine. This iteration was built in 1779 and is decorated with remarkable carvings.

The other shrine is dedicated to “The Tofu Jizō.”

With a name like that, it had to have an interesting backstory.

Before the late 19th century, this Jizō statue held pride of place on temple grounds, bringing prosperity to the worshippers on Mount Haguro and protecting pilgrims.

Sadly, when its temple compound was destroyed, this Jizō statue was cast into a ravine and forgotten.

Many years later, a mason was searching the forest for stone. He came upon the Jizō and mistook it for mere smooth stone. It seemed to him a perfect find to fashion into a stone used in making tofu. It was his lucky day — or so he thought.

The moment he struck the stone, he fell over unconscious. For three days and three nights he lay in a stupor, his mind filled with dreams.

In his dreams, Jizō appeared to him and warned him to repent of his disrespect.

When he awoke, repent, he did!

He moved the Jizō to its current position near the Zuishinmon Gate, built a shrine for him, and gave him the name “Tofu Jizō.” Today, people visit this Jizō to pray for long life, safe childbirth, and for help in raising children.

I go next door to the inn and partake of a wonderful shojin-ryori breakfast. I notice one of the dishes is a triangular chimaki, a type of rice dumpling wrapped and cooked in bamboo leaves and topped with soybean powder. It is a popular dish served on Children’s Day and one of my favorites.

After this delicious meal, I bid farewell to the kind innkeeper.

My time at Mount Haguro is up. I catch the 9:18 bus to Tsuruoka Town, satisfied after a perfect stay and looking forward to new adventures.

Mount Haguro embodies many of the reasons I write about rural Japan. Though off the beaten path, it truly is a treasure trove of culture and beauty for those who take the time to visit.

For what it’s like to stay at a Buddhist Temple, please see my article, “Shukubō — Tranquil Temple Stay in Japan.”

The post Mount Haguro—Experiencing its Rustic Magnificence first appeared on More Than Tokyo and is written by Diane Tincher.

From Aomori to Kagoshima, here are some of my favorites

Someone recently asked me if I have seen a waterfall. Oh, I have seen waterfalls. I hunt for them like elusive treasures. I scramble over disused and overgrown trails to find them. I venture to say, I collect them.

Here in Japan, waterfalls are so magnificent that some are considered Shinto kami, or deities. Like the country’s tallest, with a drop of 133 meters and one of Japan’s Three Great Waterfalls, the glorious Nachi Falls in Wakayama.

But one needn’t go far to find waterfalls in this country.

In my home prefecture of Kagoshima, there are hundreds. Among them is the hidden Nagano Falls, where water cascades and twists between moss-covered craggy rocks into an open cave.

It is not easy to find. One must follow the few inconspicuous, small Japanese signs that point the way along narrow country roads, passing by age-old farms, rice fields, and vegetable gardens. Then down an even narrower road to a path that leads to the 13-meter-tall Nagano Falls.

Surely, the allure of waterfalls is universal. Being in their presence has an almost enchanting effect — their beauty lifts heavy hearts, the thunder of falling water fills our ears, and our eyes are captivated by the dance of water on stone. The air carries a refreshing coolness. The moss covering the stones is soft and delicate.

Waterfall hunting

A couple of years ago, my quest for waterfalls led me to Aomori Prefecture, in the far north of the island of Honshu. I had read that Oirase Gorge was waterfall heaven.

My journey to get there took a full day.

From my home in southern Kyushu, I flew to Tokyo, then took the Shinkansen bullet train to Hachinohe, a city on the northeastern coast of Honshu. There, I rented a car to drive 90 minutes for the last leg of my journey to Lake Towada.

The Oirase Gorge traces the course of the Oirase River as it winds its way northward from Lake Towada through a forest of trees and a near-endless variety of moss.

Photos cannot do justice to the glory that is Oirase Gorge. I spent several hours leisurely hiking along the trail, immersed in the splendor of its countless falls and cascades.

After two nights at Lake Towada, I drove back to Hachinohe, returned the car, and again took the Shinkansen. This time, south to Sendai in Miyagi Prefecture. After a good night’s sleep, I boarded a local train to Yamadera in Yamagata Prefecture.

On the way, I noticed a station with the intriguing name, Omoshiroyama Kōgen, “Amusing Mountain Highlands.” As the train whisked past the station, I caught a glimpse of a placard with a map of a hiking trail on the platform.

A new place to explore!

After climbing the 1,015 steps to the top of Yamadera and back down, I had plenty of daylight left to explore the “Amusing Mountain.”

I was glad I did. Walking along the aptly named Kōyō River, I felt I had entered another world. (Kōyō is the Japanese word that describes the changing colors of leaves in autumn.)

The first waterfall I came across took me down a narrow path, over an old, wooden bridge that had seen better days, and across patches of mud and uneven stones. But it was worth it.

Called Arare Falls, meaning “Hail Falls,” this hidden gem is a modest 10 meters tall.

I backtracked, crossed over the railroad tracks, and found the path down to the Kōyō River.

I couldn’t believe my good fortune! I had wandered into paradise. The gorge was a symphony of nature’s best — the colorful trees, the crystal-clear stream, the waterfalls, both small and grand, and even the path itself with its charming bridges — I was in awe.

Enveloped by the crisp autumn air, surrounded by the amazing colors of the leaves, and serenaded by the burbling of flowing water, I once more found myself lost in the wonders of nature.

Then my breath caught when I turned the corner and gazed upon this beauty.

Kinuito Falls, “Silk Thread Falls,” gracefully spreads like threads as it descends 22 meters along a stone face. On that serendipitous day in Omoshiroyama, it was merely one of the many wonders I had the privilege to view.

Another outstanding hike occurred a few years back when I took advantage of the Japanese government’s domestic travel subsidies during the pandemic.

Nikkō, Tochigi Prefecture

Located around two hours by train north of Tokyo, Nikkō is a quaint city where the first shogun of the Edo Era (1603–1867) is deified at the Toshogu Shrine. When I traveled to Nikkō to visit that magnificent masterpiece of a Shinto Shrine, I could not resist taking a bus to the east to hike in the beautiful Senjogahara Highlands to find more waterfalls.

And find them, I did. Tochigi is home to another one of Japan’s 3 Great Waterfalls, Kegon Falls, with an impressive drop of 97 meters.

An easy hike along the shore of Lake Chuzenji, then along the Yu River to the north, lies Ryuzu Falls, “Dragon Head Falls.” It cascades in a graceful dance, crisscrossing 210 meters down to its rocky pool below.

Niagaras of the East

On the southern island of Kyushu, we have not one, but two imposing waterfalls that have claimed the title of “The Niagara of the East.”

In northwest Kagoshima Prefecture, stands the 210 meter wide, 12 meter tall, Sogi Falls:

In Oita, Harajiri Falls spans a width of 120 meters and stands 20 meters tall:

Please let me know in the comments which one of these glorious falls you think is most deserving of the title of “Niagara of the East.”

My favorite

This exploration of waterfalls wouldn’t be complete without mentioning my favorite, although deciding on just one has been difficult.

To see the hidden falls I’ve chosen, you first need to ferry from Kagoshima City over to the peninsula on the Pacific coast side of Kagoshima, called Osumi. From there, drive down nearly to the end, the southernmost point of Japan’s main islands, Cape Sata.

About 30 minutes before reaching Cape Sata, turn left and follow narrow winding roads for about 20 minutes. After parking, you then hike 1.2 kilometers through a forest along a stream of crystal-clear, aquamarine water.

Rounding the last turn, you will behold this marvelous sight. My photo does not come near to capturing its wonder.

Ogawa Falls tumbles down a 46-meter drop and seeps through the jagged 60-meter wide cliff face forming a pool of extraordinarily colored water.

As this journey through Japan’s waterfalls comes to a close, my wish is that you, too, will have the opportunity to explore some of the fabulous falls and diverse natural treasures that this beautiful country holds.

The post Waterfalls in Japan—A Selection of its Most Magnificent first appeared on More Than Tokyo and is written by Diane Tincher.

Architect of a thriving ecosystem

In 1888, Mount Bandai erupted with such fury that its middle peak, Ko-Bandai was violently thrown off, displacing one square kilometer of earth. The destruction left by cascading debris avalanches destroyed towns, killed 477 people, and left trees stripped and fallen by the thousands. Although relief efforts were prompt and generous, the land remained desolate for decades.

Enter, our hero.

Endō Genmu

Endō Genmu was one of 12 sons born into a family of distillers in Aizuwakamatsu, Fukushima. His early memories were marred by the devastation of the Boshin War (1868–1869), which left Aizu in ruins. Perhaps seeing such devastation during his formative years inspired his lifelong pursuit of forestation.

Living near Tsurugajo Castle, Genmu earned the trust of the ruling Matsudaira family, who assigned him the responsibility of sourcing and planting trees on the castle grounds. Together with like-minded comrades, he took on the ambitious task of planting 1,000 Somei Yoshino cherry trees — still thriving today. Encouraged by this success, they extended their efforts to planting cedars on Mount Mineyama and near the Matsudaira family grave.

As the 20th century dawned, Urabandai still bore the scars of the 1888 volcanic eruption. To encourage reforestation, the government provided incentives by offering the land at reduced prices to individuals willing to take on the daunting task. Several attempts at reforestation had been made, but disappointment, failure, and financial hardship had been the outcomes. The ground seemed too barren to revive.

Genmu rose to the challenge. Determined to succeed where others had failed, he sought guidance from Japan’s foremost forestry expert, Nakamura Yaroku. Together, they acquired 130,000 red pine saplings from Saitama Prefecture, which they meticulously planted throughout the barren wasteland.

As the months passed, the men faced a disappointing setback when nearly half of the saplings withered and died. However, Genmu noticed that the trees near the ponds had a higher survival rate. Using this insight, he concentrated his planting efforts around the ponds, placing the saplings in threes.

To safeguard the newly planted trees during the harsh winter months, Genmu and his team set up a guardhouse and employed monitors to watch over them. While these precautions strained their finances, they were vital for the saplings’ survival, and the results were well worth it.

Endō Genmu’s Breakthrough

Over the following two years, Genmu and his team successfully afforested an area spanning 1,340 hectares (3,311 acres). Their efforts paid off, and they finally received official recognition and approval for their land reclamation endeavors. In 1919, they purchased the land they had so diligently revitalized.

With the opening of a new railroad connecting Bandai and Niigata in 1914, Genmu and Yaroku saw a fresh opportunity. Using the railroad, they transported 50,000 red pines, 20,000 lacquer trees, and 30,000 cedar saplings — a total of 100,000 trees — from Niigata to Urabandai.

The journey was far from easy, as Urabandai was strewn with boulders, and the roads lay buried under meters of debris. Undeterred by these obstacles, the men forged ahead, constructing new roads to facilitate the transportation of the trees by horse-drawn carriage from Inawashiro.

Today, Endo Genmu and his collaborator, Nakamura Yaroku, are celebrated for their remarkable achievement in planting hundreds of thousands of trees, bringing forest life back to Urabandai. Many red pines they planted can still be seen along the Goshikinuma Pond Trail.

A memorial that Genmu erected to the victims of the 1888 eruption stands to the northwest of Aonuma Pond. Buried beside the monument, Genmu and his wife, Iku, rest peacefully, surrounded by the flourishing ecosystem he fought so tirelessly to create.

The post Endo Genmu—The Unsung Hero of Urabandai Reforestation first appeared on More Than Tokyo and is written by Diane Tincher.

And the birth of one of Japan’s most mysterious natural wonders

Reflected in the still waters of Japan’s fourth-largest lake, Inawashiro, the 1,816-meter-high Mount Bandai stands tall and proud to the north, an iconic symbol of Fukushima Prefecture. Viewed from the lakeshore to the south — the side called Omote-Bandai, “Front Bandai” — the stratovolcano appears smooth, its verdant, irregular peaks like ordered crowns atop the mountain. The surrounding land is a picture of tranquility, with gentle plains covered in a patchwork of orderly rice fields.

From the volcano’s northern side — Urabandai, “Behind Bandai” — it is as if one is looking at a different mountain. Gone are the smooth slopes of its southern face. Here the mountain seems to have been cleft in two, its tall, craggy, desolate peaks bearing the scars of a terrible eruption that took place in a single day in 1888.

But in the wake of that horror, nature created a masterpiece.

Goshikinuma

Goshikinuma, “Five-Colored Ponds,” is the collective name for numerous ponds and marshes formed after the eruption of Mount Bandai in 1888. The eruption forced acidic substances into the groundwater that flowed into the ponds. These acids chemically changed into aluminum silicate crystals and mixed into the water. The crystals reflect specific wavelengths of light creating the mysterious colors seen in the ponds.

The marshy pools’ hues range from cobalt blue, emerald green, and turquoise blue, to pastel blue, with occasional hints of crimson. These colors vary based on seasonal changes, weather conditions, viewing angles, and the concentration of volcanic substances in the water. The curious and changing colorations of the water gave rise to another name for the Goshikinuma — Shinpi no Koshō, “Mysterious Marshes.”

Mount Bandai’s 1888 Eruption

Like many stratovolcanoes, Mount Bandai contains several vents. Before that eventful day in 1888, three distinct peaks crowned the mountain — the higher western peak, known as O-Bandai; the eastern peak, Kushi ga Mine; and between these was the third peak, a sort of shoulder to O-Bandai, called Ko-Bandai.

From July 8–10, small earthquakes were felt at the northern base of the volcano, growing in intensity over the 13th and 14th. Despite these seismic tremors, no changes were observed in volcanic activity.

However, starting on the morning of July 15, a series of events would completely alter the topography of the area. 

It began with two powerful earthquakes, the first striking around 7:30 am, followed by a second quake and colossal explosion, whose deafening roar was heard as far as 100 km away. 

The force of this initial blast uprooted trees over a meter in diameter and stripped bark from others. Confusion and terror ripped through the villages at the mountain’s base as people and farm animals were hurled into the air, their clothing torn from their bodies. Airborne debris, a mix of volcanic rock and twigs, caused injuries to many. Ash carried by prevailing winds fell as far as the Pacific Coast.

About twenty additional eruptions followed, unleashing further devastation upon the foothills of Bandai. Three hot spring inns nestled in the foothills were filled with people seeking the healing benefits of the therapeutic waters. Tragically, the staff and guests were bombarded with cinders and ash, and many lost their lives. The death toll would reach 477, Japan’s highest number of fatalities from volcanic disasters since the Meiji era began in 1868.

Within ten minutes of the initial blast, a massive collapse caused by a pyroclastic surge set an avalanche of debris cascading down the volcano’s northern flank. This tsunami of earth crashed through the Biwazawa Valley, obliterating the once-thriving village of Shibutani and burying half of the houses in the nearby village of Mine.

Approximately two hours after the eruption began, an eerie calm settled over the torn landscape. Onlookers wondered if the worst was over.

Suddenly, the air was filled with deep, furious rumblings. Ko-Bandai, the peak between O-Bandai and Kushi ga Mine, collapsed, unleashing a mighty torrent of stone and earth. This colossal avalanche, towering 75 meters high, surged down the mountain with incredible force at speeds of 80 kph. It crushed everything in its path as it hurtled down the mountainside in a cascade of destruction, spreading into a fan shape over an incredible 34 square kilometers in the Nagase Valley below and extending 15 km to the north of Mount Bandai.

The entire mountain was transformed. The northern side was hollowed out, creating a vast, gaping, horseshoe-shaped caldera where the crown of Ko-Bandai once stood. This enormous abyss measured approximately 2 km from north to south, 1.5 to 2.1 km from east to west, and reached a depth of 400 meters. The collapse of Ko-Bandai is estimated to have moved a staggering 1.5 cubic kilometers of earth.

The deposition of debris created the distinctive topography of Urabandai, a land dotted with innumerable small hills and valleys. As water accumulated in the low-lying areas, many small lakes and marshes, including the Goshikinuma, took form. The hilly topography of the Urabandai Plateau extends not only to the land but can also be seen beneath the waters of its ponds.

The Aftermath

As the rumblings ceased and the ash cleared from the air on the day of the eruption, Fukushima Prefecture dispatched prefectural police officers to assist the local officials who had already started rescue activities.

Within days, the rising waters from the rivers, choked by the massive debris avalanches, threatened to engulf surrounding villages. The roads were already underwater, posing further obstacles to rescue missions.

Soon, the inevitable unfolded — two lakes to the north and south of the six hamlets of Hibara Village merged, creating the Lake Hibara we know today. An abandoned hamlet lies beneath the water’s northern surface, the vestiges remaining on the lake floor 30 meters below. Only the top of a torii gate extends above the water’s surface, a poignant reminder of the town’s former existence.

The southern portion of the lake blankets another hamlet, first buried under debris from the landslide. Of the original six hamlets of Hibara Village, two were submerged beneath the lake, three were swallowed up in the debris avalanche, and only one, Wasezawa, survived.

Within two days of the eruption, Emperor Meiji announced that he would grant an imperial gift of 3,000 yen towards the relief efforts — a considerable sum at the time. It is worth noting that only two decades earlier, the people of Aizu had fought against the emperor’s new government during the Boshin War. Considering their history, the emperor’s benevolence and concern in the face of this disaster must have deeply touched the hearts of those affected.

Physicians from Tokyo Imperial University, now Tokyo University, were dispatched to care for the injured. Empress Shōken urged the nascent Japanese Red Cross to join the relief efforts, marking the organization’s first peacetime relief work.

As news of the disaster spread throughout Japan, a wave of volunteers rushed to Fukushima eager to lend a helping hand. Inns and private houses in the area filled. Generous donations flowed in. The displaced people soon had new housing, and Hibara Village was reconstructed from the ground up.

Today, Mount Bandai is continuously monitored by the Japan Meteorological Agency to detect any potential volcanic activity. The once-devastated land has undergone a remarkable transformation, making it a popular destination for skiing and vacations. 

The only visible traces of the catastrophic eruption are the horseshoe-shaped crater on the northern face of Bandai and the hummocks in Urabandai formed by the debris avalanches. The countless trees once described by a volcanologist as “laying prostrate on the ground in thousands” are nowhere to be found, and the blast deposit is now concealed by thriving vegetation.

But all that vegetation did not rebound spontaneously.

Read the continuation of this story in Endō Genmu — The Unsung Hero of Urabandai Reforestation.

The post Mount Bandai’s Horrific 1888 Eruption first appeared on More Than Tokyo and is written by Diane Tincher.

Wild vegetables, or sansai, play an important role in Japanese cuisine

Washoku, Japanese cuisine, is a celebration of seasonal dishes, and sansai, 山菜, wild mountain vegetables, play a starring role. Elderly folks have told me of the long-held belief that whatever foods are in season are what our bodies require at that time of year for optimum health. Surely, that holds true for sansai.

On my late afternoon springtime walks, I can find lots of sansai, the same as you might be served at inns or local restaurants.

Join me, as I walk around my neighborhood.

Bamboo shoots

The first thing to catch my eye not 50 meters from my house is a bamboo shoot, although far past its time for harvest.

If you want to try one yourself, don’t make the same mistake we did. These fast-growing plants need to be cut from the ground at first sight of the tiny tip breaking through the soil. Otherwise, they are too tough to eat.

Once you dig up a shoot, peel off the outer layers, then boil the heart in water with salt or a little nuka rice bran to remove its astringency.

Bamboo shoots are a crunchy addition to rice dishes like chirashizushi and takikomi-gohan, and I chop and freeze some to use out of season. Like pretty much every other vegetable in Japan, they are often added to soups. I’ve also had them made into tempura, or boiled with root vegetables in soy sauce, sake, and sugar.

Called “green gold” in India because of their nutritious value, bamboo shoots are rich in fiber and low in calories, they are a good source of vitamins A, B6, and E, potassium, manganese, thiamine, and niacin.

Next, all I had to do was turn around, and I spied a field filled with horsetails.

Horsetails

In the spring, horsetails are the first sansai, and they pop up everywhere. Their little leafless sprouts have a cute Japanese name — tsukushi, 土筆, a paintbrush 筆, coming out of the ground 土.

People stop by the road to gather them and bring them home to blanch, then prepare with a miso/vinegar sauce, or scramble them with eggs, or perhaps pickle them to be eaten throughout the year.

Some people claim that horsetails can treat urinary tract infections, edema, kidney stones, and rheumatism. Others say they help skin conditions and can even aid hair and nail growth.

But I am not a practitioner of herbal medicine. I just enjoy a horsetail or two when served as part of a traditional Japanese meal.

I turn from the horsetails, walk down the hill, and come upon the third sansai of this walk.

Angelica

My favorite path meanders through rice fields and vegetable gardens. As I am walking, a man calls out to me from where he stands beside some very tall plants. He’s cutting the tips off fresh sprouts.

He tells me that these plants are not native to our area, but a friend in Nagano gifted them to him. He waxes eloquently about the deliciousness of tara no mi and insists I take some home and tempura them for dinner.

I did just that, and they were indeed delicious!

I later learned that tara no mi are angelica tips, a favorite among herbalists, and realized I’ve often been served it at inns in Nagano.

Angelica is used as a tonic for the nervous system, to treat digestive issues, respiratory infections, and menstrual cramps. This website claims it has anti-anxiety effects. I can’t say I’ve noticed any of these effects.

But my walk isn’t over. I follow the stream to another area of paddies, up a hill by greenhouses made of plastic sheeting, and down a disused path. Along the side, I spy our next sansai.

Butterbur buds

Butterbur has a long history of medicinal use.

The 1st century Greek, Pedanius Dioscorides, is said to have used a paste made from powdered butterbur to treat skin ulcers. In 17th century Germany, powdered butterbur root was used to treat sudden abdominal pain, asthma, and colds. In the 18th century, that same powder was used to treat plague victims.

Today, herbalists use butterbur to treat migraines, colds, hay fever, inflammation, and more.

Butterbur buds, or fuki no to, 蕗のとう, are almost as common as horsetails. They are best picked when they first appear, and the buds are still closed. They can be sauteed and mixed with miso paste or fried in tempura. Not only are they delicious, but they are full of vitamins, minerals, and fiber.

I think this next one is my favorite, but I wonder, is it really sansai? It seems to me to be cultivated.

Baby mustard greens

Baby mustard greens, or baby bok choy, is a tender, sweet leafy vegetable. The local elderly folk who keep gardens often put out bundles to sell, and that’s where I’ve gotten mine.

Like all sansai, they are best eaten fresh. Use them raw in salads, stir-fry with garlic, or add to soup.

They are low-calorie, full of fiber, and rich in vitamins A, C, and K, calcium, iron, potassium, and trace minerals. They also contain cancer-fighting antioxidants and prevent inflammation.

And I just thought they were a delicious spring treat!

As I walk through the rice fields, this last sansai is everywhere.

Chinese milk vetch

Chinese milk vetch covers most of the rice fields in my area each spring and, I’ve been told, is a boon to rice farmers. It has lovely Japanese names, rengeso, 蓮華草, lotus flower grass, or genge 紫雲英, purple clouds. When in full flower, the plants are turned under to provide needed nitrogen to the soil.

A field covered in purple Chinese milk vetch is a field that will produce a bountiful crop of rice, or so the farmers assure me.

Leaving the rice fields behind, I hike back up the hill to my house, refreshed and revitalized from my daily walk, taking in the beauty of nature.

I hope you can try some of these sansai if you haven’t yet. Do you have wild vegetables in your area?

The post Sansai—6 Helpful Herbs that Herald Spring first appeared on More Than Tokyo and is written by Diane Tincher.

Critically endangered adorable little horses

After climbing over the Jizo Pass, my guests and I hike uphill, through swaying pampas grass and sasa bamboo, to the Kiso Uma no Sato, Kiso Horse Conservation Center, on the refreshingly cool Kaida Plateau of Nagano Prefecture.

The pleasant aroma of hay and horses reaches us as we near the stables. It is spring — the time of foaling.

Kiso horses are more like ponies, small, sturdy, and round-bellied. One of my guests asks, “Are all these horses pregnant?” Looking at them, I could understand the mistake. In truth, only three of the horses were pregnant.

Passing by the stables, we walk to the paddock behind the barns to pet the horses.

History of Kiso Horses

In the 4th century, several horse breeds were brought to Japan from the Asian continent. It is thought that what we now call Kiso horses originally came from Mongolia to Japan through China and Korea. They are the only “indigenous” horse breed on the main island of Honshu. 

These sweet, pony-like horses have been raised in the Kiso Valley for centuries, where they were used for farming and transportation. They are small horses, weighing 350-400 kilos (770-880 pounds), a mere 110 to 140 cm tall at the withers (3′ 7″- 4′ 7″).

These horses traditionally lived under the same roof as their owners on the sunny, southeast side of the farmhouse in one large recessed stall. The women who cared for them treated them like beloved children.

Although small, Kiso horses are strong and hardy, able to tolerate a sparse diet and the cold Nagano winters. Their hooves are so tough that there is no need for horseshoes, although in years past they wore straw sandals to help them gain purchase on slippery cobblestones and steep mountain trails.

In time, these horses came to be used on the battlefield, first during the Genpei War of 1180-1185, where they gained a reputation as a sturdy, reliable breed. During the feudal age that followed, many Kiso horses were used by samurai, yet they never lost their place as valuable workhorses on rural farms.

In the late 19th century, the Imperial Army of the Meiji government decided they needed to improve and enlarge the breed. They decreed that all males be castrated and that the females only breed with Western imported stallions. This did not bode well for the Kiso horses.

From the late 19th century through the 1920s, there were roughly 7,000 Kiso horses. Then, with the advent of mechanized farming, their numbers fell drastically.

After WWII, there was only one intact male Kiso horse in existence. He had escaped castration by being donated to a shrine. His one male offspring, with 98.4% pure blood, was born in 1951. This stallion, Daisan Haruyama, became the father of all future Kiso horses, siring over 700 in his long and productive life.

The Kiso horse population went up and down through the years, and in 1976, the year after Daisan Haruyama’s death, there were only 32. Thanks to the careful work of conservationists, today, there are about 140 of this gentle breed. Forty of these reside at the Kiso Uma no Sato.

The colors of these remaining horses have been dramatically affected by the genetic bottleneck. In the 19th century, there were gray, black, and palomino horses. Today, all Kiso horses are shades of bay, with a very few chestnut, sandy brown, or dun.

Bidding farewell

Having been charmed by these lovely little horses, it’s time for us to head to the bus stop. Buses only come once every couple of hours in such rural areas, so we want to be early.

We say our goodbyes to the horses, walk down the road past birch trees and a blueberry orchard, and reach the bus stop. The bus will take us to our inn where we will relax in an onsen bath before being treated to a beautiful kaiseki dinner.

It was another perfect day.

To visit these docile horses, seek out the Kiso Uma no Sato on the Kaida Plateau of Nagano Prefecture.

References:

Kiso Uma no Sato, The Tragedy of the Kiso Horse (Japanese).

Horses in the snow photo provided by Walk Japan.

The post Kiso Horses—Overcoming the Disastrous Consequences of Meiji Era “Improvements” first appeared on More Than Tokyo and is written by Diane Tincher.

Love of nature is the essence of Shinto

You can’t help but notice signs of Shinto everywhere in Japan, from impressive torii gates in front of the shrines sprinkled throughout cities and the countryside to tiny conical piles of salt on either side of shop doors.

But what is Shinto? And why are there piles of salt by people’s doors?

Shinto’s roots

From time immemorial, people in Japan have loved and revered nature as a gift of the gods. They instinctively felt it was their duty to care for the natural world. And they realized that in order to live in harmony with nature, they needed to both receive its blessings and gracefully accept its ravages.

Shinto was born from this sense of awe and respect toward the power and beauty of nature and gratitude for its bounty. 

Shinto deities or kami

Heaven, earth, and mankind all manifest nature’s energy. This natural energy, or life force, is what Shinto calls kami.

Life force is everywhere and in everything, so there are kami of mountains, wind, waterfalls, trees — all kinds of things. Shinto recognizes the great power and influence these have over our lives.

Since natural landmarks were places where kami resided, structures were built near them where rituals could be conducted. This is the origin of Shinto shrines.

Not only natural objects, but people who have made great contributions to society may be enshrined as kami, such as Sugawara no Michizane, the kami of learning, and Wake no Kiyomaro, the Great Protector of the Emperor.

A religion with no creed

Shinto has no founder, no creed, and no commandments. There is no one omnipotent creator god. 

Shinto kami are not infallible gods. In fact, they are a lot like us. 

When faced with a problem, kami gather to discuss how to solve it. This decision-making by committee was mentioned in the Kojiki, Japan’s first history written in 710, and may be behind Japanese society’s emphasis on harmony and collectivism.

Shinto encourages a cheerful way of life and views life as about the pursuit of happiness rather than being constrained by dogmatic rules concerning “sin.” There is no concept of sin or salvation in Shinto. There is not even a belief in karma, like in Buddhism or Hinduism.

Shinto assumes the inherent goodness of nature and humanity. The essence of all life is a gift from kami, so it is flawless, even if humans err. Errors are actions, and those mistaken actions do not follow us around forever.

As from physical dirt, our spirits can be restored and cleansed from mistakes we’ve made through purification. Love and kindness help us to maintain that cleanness and to develop a clean and pure character.

Humans continue to grow throughout their lives and after their lives. Eventually, they may even become kami themselves.

Matsuri, or festivals

Matsuris are festivals and ceremonies by which the Japanese appease the sometimes violent kami of nature and pray for blessings. Some are religious matsuris, like those in the spring and fall, where Shinto priests represent the community and pray and give thanks for bountiful harvests.

Other matsuris serve as entertainment for the kami. During these festivals, the kami is carried through the town in a portable shrine and people dance in a procession in the streets. Sumo wrestling and Noh theater are other types of matsuris that are entertainment dedicated to kami.

Matsuris provide a way for communities to both connect to the kami and be strengthened and rejuvenated themselves.

Beauty and goodness are intertwined

Japanese aesthetics reveal an inherent love of beauty displayed through the use of clear clean lines, simple patterns, and subtlety of design. In a similar vein, moral behavior is associated with the balance of mind, body, and spirit.

Evil deeds and misfortunes are attributed to magatsubi, the curved spirit. Ugliness is associated with things warped and crooked, including our minds. Immoral behavior is rooted in spiritual or intellectual imbalance.

Part of Shinto’s ritual cleansing is to purify our thoughts and straighten our way of thinking.

Purity and cleanliness

Before entering a shrine, visitors wash their hands and rinse their mouths with special water provided near the torii gate. 

Shrines are always kept clean and pure. They are often surrounded by trees and filled with the divine energy of nature. They are places to worship, relax, and be refreshed and renewed.

Essential to Shinto is the practice of misogi, ritual cleansing of both body and spirit. In ancient days, washing in the salty water of the sea was believed to be the best way to be cleansed. 

Today, the traditional importance of salt in Shinto purification can be seen when sumo wrestlers sprinkle salt in the sumo ring to purify it before a match, or in the piles of salt on either side of doors to prevent the entry of evil spirits.

Shide, or hakuhei, the white folded papers hanging from shimenawa ropes, purify those who pass by absorbing their negative energy. The shimenawa rope itself is said to attract and capture negativity and uncleanness. These provide a protective barrier at the gates of shrines, keeping the shrine and its grounds pure. 

Mirrors

Mirrors in shrines are not the object of worship, but rather they reflect the radiant light of the spirit of kami. The mirror enshrined at the Ise Grand Shrine is of supreme importance and is one of Japan’s Three Sacred Treasures. 

To understand those sacred treasures, we need to visit a couple of stories told in Japan’s most ancient history book, the Kojiki.

Amaterasu and the Cave

This story revolves around Amaterasu Omikami, the sun goddess, and her younger brother Susanoo no Mikoto, the god of the sea and storms. I will just call them Amaterasu and Susanoo.

Amaterasu was charged by her father with the job of ruling the Plain of Heaven and Susanoo with ruling the sea. But Susanoo, much like an errant teenager, had other ideas.

He ascended to the Plain of Heaven and wreaked havoc. He broke down the footpaths between Amaterasu’s rice fields, filled up the drainage ditches, and spread dung in the divine hall. 

All this, his patient sister forgave.

But when Susanoo threw a flayed horse through the roof of Amaterasu’s house and killed her weaving maid, Amaterasu had had enough.

So what did this powerful sun goddess do?

She hid in a cave.

Naturally, when she entered the cave, the Plain of Heaven was engulfed in darkness. What could be done in this pitch blackness?

The kami met together and made a plan. 

One group was charged with forging a mirror. Another with stringing beautiful magatama, comma-shaped gems. A third with uprooting a Sakaki tree. The kami hung the mirror and jewels on the tree and brought it near the mouth of the cave wherein Amaterasu had shut herself. A strong, muscular kami stood ready by the door of the cave.

The kami gathered before the cave and began to play music and cavort. Ame no Uzume no Mikoto began to dance. Her dance grew wilder and more audacious, and she started tearing off her clothes. The other kami laughed uproariously.

Amaterasu, inside the cave, could not believe her ears. She had plunged the world into darkness — what was funny about that?

Yielding to her curiosity, she opened the rock cave door a sliver. She said, “I am hiding in this cave, and your whole world is in darkness. What could possibly be funny?”

The kami answered, “We have a more powerful goddess than you now, Amaterasu!”

Just then, the strong kami tossed away the rock door and other kami held the mirror before Amaterasu’s face. When she came near to look more closely at that beautiful, powerful goddess, the strong kami pulled her outside, and a second kami strung a divine rope across the cave’s mouth, blocking her return — the first shimenawa rope.

Light returned to the world.

Susanoo was punished for his troublemaking and banished from the Plain of Heaven.

Susanoo and the 8-headed dragon

Back on earth, Susanoo came upon an old couple crying bitterly. 

Answering Susanoo’s concern, the old man explained, “I had 8 daughters, but every year, the great dragon Yamata no Orochi comes and eats one of them. This is my last daughter, Kushinada Hime, and the dragon is on its way to take her now.” He wept again.

“What does this dragon look like?” asked Susanoo.

“It has 8 heads and 8 tails, eyes as red as winter cherries, and great trees grow from its back. Its belly is thoroughly stained with blood.”

Susanoo asked, “Will you give me your daughter?”

“But, wait. Who are you?” the startled man asked.

“I am the great Amaterasu Sun Goddess’s younger brother, Susanoo no Mikoto.”

The man willingly gave his last daughter to Susanoo. He was desperate to save her life. 

Susanoo turned her into a comb (her name, Kushi, means comb), and stuck it into his long hair for safekeeping. Then he turned to the old couple and instructed them, “Distill alcohol to 8 times its strength and place a barrel of this strong drink on each of 8 platforms.”

This they did. Then, they waited.

Sure enough, the monstrous dragon appeared and thrust each of its heads into one of the barrels, slurping greedily. It then fell into a deep sleep, and Susanoo made quick work of its slaughter.

When he was cutting off one of its tails, his blade struck something hard. He peered inside and pulled out a marvelous sword. 

Susanoo returned to his sister, Amaterasu, and presented her with this sword as a peace offering. 

Sometime later, when Amaterasu sent her grandson, Ninigi no Mikoto, down to rule the earth, he carried with him the sword, the mirror that had been held before the face of Amaterasu in the mouth of the cave, and the brightest jewel that had decorated the mirror. 

Those became the Three Imperial Treasures of Japan, symbolizing the three main Shinto deities — Amaterasu, the Sun Goddess; Tsukuyomi no Mikoto, the Moon God; and Susanoo, the God of the Sea and Storms.

Amaterasu’s mirror of wisdom is enshrined at the Great Ise Shrine. The sword of valor, called Kusanagi no Tsurugi, is at Atsuta Shrine in Nagoya. And the Yasakani no Magatama jewel of benevolence is preserved at the Imperial Palace in Tokyo. 

Shrines

Today, there are over 80,000 Shinto shrines in Japan. I hope you each have an opportunity to visit one and take some time to bask in its peaceful atmosphere. 

References:

The Kojiki; The Essence of Shinto, by Motohisa Yamakage; Soul of Japan, Public Affairs Headquarters for Shikinen-Sengu; Kumano Kodo Official Guide; visiting numerous shrines. 

The post Shinto — The Peaceful Spiritual Heart of Japan first appeared on More Than Tokyo and is written by Diane Tincher.

Walking “The Great Waterfall Road” and exploring Tsutayacho Forest in Aomori, Japan

Hidden away in southern Aomori Prefecture is the wonderful Oirase Gorge. I had wanted to visit since I read about it years ago, and I finally got my chance last fall. 

The gorge is famed for its many waterfalls, which I love, so I was looking forward to this trip. It far exceeded my expectations. The natural beauty was breathtaking.

Koyo, colored autumn leaves, canopied the clear, clean cascades of the Oirase River. The smell of the earth, the trees, the moss, and the sound of birdsong and rushing water enveloped me. It was the ultimate in forest bathing.

Walking in Oirase Gorge

As I was staying by Lake Towada, I drove about 10 minutes from my inn in Yasumiya, on the lake’s south shore, to Nenokuchi on the eastern side, where the Oirase river begins. The parking lots were empty just after 7:00 AM on a Monday in late October. 

It was cold and a little rainy, but that didn’t dampen my spirits.

I snapped a photo of Lake Towada in its autumn glory, and then made my way to the start of the Oirase Gorge trail.

The trail is 14 kilometers long, following the Oirase River to the Towada Bridge in Yakeyama. Visitors are encouraged to stick to the trail to protect the natural environment. I was glad people had done that, as the more than 200 different varieties of moss covering rocks and trees gave a fairytale feel to the forest.

I had read that the most spectacular waterfalls were to be found within the first nine kilometers, so hiking those nine was my plan. Although there is a narrow road that also follows the gorge up the river, thankfully, it was mostly out of sight and there were few cars.

Soon, I met a photographer who had parked his tiny truck by the road and set up his equipment to capture a rushing cascade backed by glorious fall colors.

I joined him to bask in the beauty. 

As I continued along the path, some movement across the stream caught my eye. I stopped to watch an adorable little bird hop along the side of the river, then dive, swim underwater, and pop back up onto a rock. I had never seen such a bird before. I later found out that it was a Brown Dipper, called in Japanese kawagarasu, “river crow.” I feel lucky to have seen it.

After walking for a couple of hours and enjoying the stream, the forest, and the many cascades and falls along the way, I arrived at Kumoi Falls, 雲井滝, “well of clouds.” This waterfall got its name from the spray that splashes up like clouds as it falls and bends along its 20-meter drop.

As you can see by the photos, not only moss, but many varieties of ferns flourish on the forest floor. 

Before long, the river grew loud and violent as it tumbled and crashed around the Kujyūku-Shima, 九十九島, 99 Islands. So powerful is this section of the river that it was named after Ashura, 阿修羅, a fierce guardian Buddhist deity — the Ahsura Rapids.

There were waterfalls large and small along the way. I particularly liked a delicate stream that fell in several tiers, called Chisuji Falls, 千筋の滝. Several people were taking photos of it, standing in the lightly falling rain.

After a full morning of exploring, I reached my destination of Makodoiwa Rock, beside which is a bus stop. Having checked the schedule ahead of time, I knew when to catch the very few buses that plied that route. 

I was soon back at Lake Towada after an unforgettable walk along the Bakufu-Kaido, 瀑布街道, “The Great Waterfall Road.”

The next stop was Tsutayacho no Mori, Tsutayacho Forest, a 30-minute drive to the north.

Tsutayacho Forest

Visiting the Tsutanuma Pond area was not part of my original plan, but when I saw it on the map, I wanted to check it out. I am so glad I did.

The area is a peaceful haven of trees and foliage reflected in still, clear ponds. A 2.6 km hiking trail leads from the parking lot around six small marshy ponds, the largest of which is Tsutanuma with a 1 km circumference.

I walked alone through the quiet forest, only the sounds of birdsong and the rustling of leaves to keep me company. Occasionally, a cute little bird would pop out of the underbrush onto the path ahead. 

After about 20 minutes, I came upon the peaceful Suganuma Pond. I took a moment to sit in a small covered rest area to soak in the solitude.

I followed the path uphill and, after another 20 minutes, reached Naganuma Pond. I felt like I had stepped into a postcard, so picturesque was the setting. 

Naganuma means “long pond or marsh.” The shallow pond changes its shape depending on the amount of rainfall. It was relatively small when I visited, but no less for beauty.

As I saw in the Oirase Gorge, the Tsutayacho forest floor was covered with moss and ferns, along with sasa bamboo and other grasses. The cool, crisp autumn air was filled with smell of the fresh earth, the fragrance of the trees, and the gentle sound of the wind in the leaves.

Yet another 20 minutes of leisurely walking and I went around a bend to behold Kagaminuma, Mirror Pond. So named because its clear water reflects the beautiful beech trees and foliage that surround it.

Then it was a downhill walk to Tsutanuma pond where I met other people who had skipped the longer walk, only wanting to visit this largest pond. 

The trail took me past a shrine, an onsen (hot springs) hotel, and back to my car. 

I settled in for the 90-minute drive to Hachinohe City. There, I would visit the beginning of the Michinoku Trail before catching the bullet train to Hiraizumi, the former fabulously wealthy capital of northern Japan, now a UNESCO World Heritage Site.

The post Oirase Gorge — Wonderland of Waterfalls and Otherworldly Beauty first appeared on More Than Tokyo and is written by Diane Tincher.

More than just pretty flowers

I grew up in northern Virginia. Each spring, my mother would wax poetic about the cherry blossoms that bloomed along the Potomac River and Tidal Basin in nearby Washington, DC. She would load me into the car, drive the short distance to the city, and slowly motor past the hundreds of trees. My mother obviously appreciated the blossoms more than I did.

They’re just flowers, I remember thinking.

Many years and thousands of miles from my childhood, I have come to appreciate that cherry blossoms are far more than just pretty flowers.

Sakura, Japanese Cherry Blossoms

For the centuries that Japan used the lunar calendar, until 1872, sakura bloomed just after the start of the new year, signifying new beginnings. Farmers considered the first blossoms a sign to ready their fields for another year of planting and harvesting.

Today in Japan, the arrival of sakura still marks beginnings. The blossoms appear at the end of one school year and the start of the next, and at the time when people start new jobs or transfer from one workplace to another.

Sakura season is a time for sadness at partings and a time to celebrate new beginnings.

The Impermanence of Life

For Japanese, sakura evoke feelings of both joy and pathos. Because the blossoms appear for so short a time and then gracefully fall like snow, they have long been a symbol of the impermanence of life.

Mono no aware is an expression, born over 1,000 years ago, that refers to a feeling of awe and appreciation for the transience of things, of life, and of love. The delicate sakura blossoms are all the more cherished because of the brief time we can see them each year.

Hanami — Cherry Blossom Viewing

Perhaps because of the deep awareness of the fleeting beauty of sakura, there has long been a tradition of hanami, or flower viewing. The aristocracy of the Heian Era (794-1185) would trek up to the mountains outside of Kyoto to reflect on the sublime splendor of the cherry blossoms and write poetry — the very first flower viewing parties.

When the great Heian poets wrote of “flowers,” they were inevitably referring to sakura. The Buddhist priest and poet, Saigyō, wrote in his anthology, 山家集, Sankashū:

Oh, to die

beneath the blossoms

in spring

under a full moon

in the second month.

Saigyō

Saigyō’s prayer must have been heard, as he died on the 16th day of the second month, 1190, at a temple, under a full moon, and, one imagines, under gently falling cherry blossom petals.

From the 17th century, not just aristocrats, but common people flocked to gaze upon the sakura blossoms, much like today.

When the sakura are blooming, friends, families, and coworkers make a point of spending time sitting under the trees, admiring the delicate blossoms, while eating, drinking, and making merry.

There can be competition for choice spots under the cherry blossoms in the big cities. It’s not unusual to see people staking out their territories by laying down blue tarps early in the morning to ensure they get the place they want for their evening party. But in the smaller cities, this is not such a problem.

One doesn’t necessarily need to seek out the “best place” for viewing sakura, as the trees line most rivers in cities and towns and they have pride of place in many parks. What you do need to find out is when the trees will blossom.

Sakura Forecast

So that everyone is aware of the best time to view sakura, weather forecasters in Japan provide maps with predictions on when the blossoms will open, and when the trees will be in full bloom.

It is no surprise that the trees generally begin to bloom in the south, and the “sakura front” slowly moves to the north, ending in Hokkaido, where the trees can bloom as late as May.

Sakura and Music

Just as sakura have been a theme throughout Japanese poetry, so are they in song. The most famous traditional song about cherry blossoms is called, “Sakura, Sakura.” It is perhaps not what one would expect of a springtime song, but its haunting melody beautifully depicts the pathos felt when viewing the ephemeral and delicate blossoms.

Cherry blossoms, cherry blossoms,
In the spring sky
As far as one can see.
Are they mist, or are they clouds?
Fragrance fills the air.
Come now, come now,
Let us go and see.

author unknown

Japan has no national flower, but if it were to have one, it would surely be the cherry blossom.

Translation of Saigyō poem and “Sakura, Sakura” by me.

Read about the Japanese appreciation for the beauties of autumn here.

The post Sakura—The Ephemeral Beauty of Japan’s Cherry Blossoms first appeared on More Than Tokyo and is written by Diane Tincher.

The Largest and Most Diverse Migration Ground in Japan

Cranes have long been considered auspicious in Japan, symbolizing good luck and longevity. The most famous cranes are, without a doubt, the elegant red-crowned cranes of Hokkaido, known for their graceful courtship dance.

But down south in a quiet corner of southern Kyushu, a little-known, yet cacophonous, yearly crane party takes place.

After 27 years of living in Kagoshima, I figured it was time to see these amazing creatures myself. I took the mountain road to the northwest and wound my way to the small city of Izumi on the coast near the border of Kumamoto Prefecture.

I was not disappointed.

Cranes Wintering in Izumi

Over 15,000 cranes make the long trip from Siberia and northeastern China each year to winter in the soggy rice fields of Izumi. As many as 15 species of cranes have been known to visit and share the marshy land. No other wetland on the planet in such proximity to humans hosts such a diverse array of crane species.

Among the great variety that visits, the vast majority — 15,511 in December 2021 — are the endangered hooded crane with its sooty gray body and white head. That’s a whopping 97% of the world’s hooded crane population.

Second in number is the taller red-faced, white-naped crane. About 20% of its population, 1,000-2,000, winter in Izumi each year.

Then just a few of other species — the sandhill crane, the common crane, and the hooded common crane hybrid — can be spotted among the crowds. One solitary Siberian crane was seen in Izumi in 2021.

Not only cranes but thousands of ducks also come to forage and rest. Over 37,000 migratory birds make Izumi their winter home. That’s a big party!

But it wasn’t always the case.

History of Conservation

The first cranes recorded to have wintered in Izumi were in 1694, during the reign of shogun Tokugawa Tsunayoshi — nicknamed “The Dog Shogun” due to his many animal protection laws. When Tsunayoshi heard about the cranes of Izumi, he decreed that they be protected. The lords of the Satsuma Domain (Kagoshima Prefecture) followed through, and the number of cranes making Izumi their winter home gradually increased.

Unfortunately, during the early years of the Meiji Era (1868-1912) those protections were removed. Cranes were hunted to such a degree that years passed when not one crane dared to set foot in Izumi.

Thankfully, in 1885, the hunting of cranes was made illegal. The birds started to return. As the years passed, the local people worked to make the cranes a tourist attraction, and a horse-cart was engaged to bring visitors to view the cranes.

By 1919, 150-160 cranes visited Izumi. More and more came by the years until in the winter of 1939, 3,908 cranes were counted on the marshy fields.

Then WWII brought all conservation efforts to a crashing halt. A navy airfield was built nearby, and any birds that braved the noise and disruption of the airfield were met with starving and desperate people.

In 1947, just two years after WWII ended, 275 cranes were spotted, and the locals again put their efforts into conservation.

Development in the years following the war destroyed wetlands across the country, driving more birds to Izumi. In 1952, the number and variety of birds wintering in Izumi were recognized as the highest in Japan, and the government designated the Izumi migration grounds as a Special National Monument.

In 1962, the Kagoshima Crane Conservancy was established, and their efforts are responsible for the remarkable number of birds we can see in Izumi today. This committee is devoted to the conservation of the birds, studying the genetics of the cranes, and researching the pathogens they carry.

Under the auspices of the conservancy, local junior high school students have been counting the cranes yearly since the 1960s. In 2020, according to their counts, the visiting crane population peaked at 17,315. That is a remarkable feat of conservation.

In 1987, “The Izumi-Takaono National Wildlife Protection Area Special Protection Zone” was created. Then on November 18, 2021, the “Izumi Wintering Habitat of Cranes” was added to the Ramsar Convention’s List of Wetlands of International Importance, putting the tiny town of Izumi on the world map.

The Crane Observatory in Izumi

Standing by the entrance to the conservation grounds is a Ta no Kami, or rice field god, granting his blessings and protection to the rice fields — and, I’d like to think, to the cranes.

Each year from November to March, 4.8 square kilometers of paddies are set aside for the cranes, and compensation is paid to the landowners. These marshy grounds are perfect for the cranes, who sleep standing in the water, any ripples warning them of danger.

Just after dawn each morning, one ton of grain is scattered for the birds, to their uproarious delight. Not only does this keep the birds healthy, but it prevents the cranes from making a nuisance of themselves by scavenging in local fields. As spring approaches, the caretakers add small fish to the feed to ensure the birds have plenty of strength for the long flights back north.

Strange behavior in 2022

In late 2022, the Izumi Crane Conservatory counted less than half their average number of wintering cranes. Yet despite fewer cranes, well above the average number of birds have died from avian flu.

Researchers have also noted unusual behavior. They’ve observed cranes circling and circling above the marshy fields and not landing. Instead, after circling, they head off to the northwest as if they can sense the illness affecting their fellows on the ground.

Conversely, the wintering ground in Suncheon, South Korea, to the northwest, is crowded with three times more cranes than usual.

Despite this, there are still plenty of cranes in Izumi. And I was very glad to have taken the time to drive out to the Crane Observatory to visit them.

Sources:

Japan Ministry of the Environment, Ramsar Sites Information Service, visiting the Izumi Crane Observation Center, International Crane Foundation

The post The Magnificent Cranes of Izumi, Kagoshima first appeared on More Than Tokyo and is written by Diane Tincher.