Exploring culinary traditions in Izu and Kochi

While hiking in the Izu Peninsula of Shizuoka, I was lucky enough to visit an unusual shop. Tucked away up a hill in rural Tago, on the western coast, Kanesa Katsuobushi sells bonito. But not just any bonito, they are among a handful of shops that still preserve the fish using the most ancient of methods.

Bonito, sometimes called skipjack tuna, has been a dietary staple in Japan for millennia, evident from the discovery of its bones in Jomon-era (14,000–300 BC) shell middens. And if you’ve ever eaten Japanese food, you’ve likely eaten bonito. It is the foundation of dashi broth, an indispensable ingredient in Japanese cuisine. You might have even seen fish flakes, shaved from dried bonito, dance like an apparition atop tofu, rice, and other dishes.

Katsuo, the Japanese word for bonito, can also be read as “a man who wins,” giving it a favorable connotation. Similarly, the association between the celebratory dish sea bream, called tai, and something happy and auspicious — known as mede-tai — shows how symbolism may contribute to a dish’s enduring popularity.

Because bonito is a seasonal fish, ancient people devised creative ways to preserve it. The earliest documented technique is shiokatsuo, salted and dried bonito, sent from the Izu peninsula as a gift to the Imperial Court during the Nara era (710–794). That is Kanesa Katsuo’s specialty.

To make shiokatsuo, bonito are cleaned and then soaked for 10–12 days in a solution of sea salt and fresh water, drawn from a deep well. After this, the fish are hung in the shade for three weeks, allowing the wind to dry them.

The drying not only preserves but also ferments and ages the fish, concentrating its flavor — not unlike the process used in creating dry-cured ham.

Centuries ago, owners of bonito fishing boats on the western coast of Izu began offering shiokatsuo to Shinto shrines for purification, then serving it to their crews to celebrate the New Year. It was given both as a prayer for bountiful catches and as a guarantee of employment throughout the coming year. If a crew member was not given that gift, he knew he was out of a job.

As part of Shogatsu, or New Year’s celebration, people around Japan place kagami mochi, “mirror rice cakes,” on their house altars to welcome the god of the New Year. Not so in western Izu. Through the centuries, the custom of fishing boat owners offering shiokatsuo morphed into a unique tradition. Here, every household offers a shiokatsuo on their Shinto altar for blessings in the New Year. 

This New Year’s tradition has kept alive this ancient method of preserving bonito . Each year in November, the Kanesa shop produces 400–500 shiokatsuo to be used as New Year’s offerings — called shogatsu-yo. And each year, they quickly sell out.

Kanesa Katsuo’s main product, though, is the most common form of bonito eaten in Japan — katsuobushi. Originating in the 17th century, this rocklike preserved fish is flaked and used as a topping for various dishes and is a key ingredient in dashi broth.

Known as the hardest food in the world, katsuobushi takes six months to prepare. First, the bonito is filleted, deboned, and cleaned before being boiled and left to dry on racks in a hot oven. Then the dried fillets are coated with koji mold — the same koji used in the production of sake, miso, and soy sauce — and left to mature for about four months. 

This process results in blocks of preserved fish that will later be shaved into “fish flakes.” Special heavy-duty planes are needed for shaving the rock-hard katsuobushi. Your mandoline slicer just won’t do. 

Bonito in Kochi

Each year, bonito migrate from the warm waters of southern Okinawa Prefecture along the eastern coasts of Kyushu, Shikoku, and Honshu.

To avail themselves of this bounty of the sea, fishermen in Kochi city on Shikoku island have long used a 400-year-old traditional method called ipponzuri, catching the bonito with a fishing pole. The fishermen first lure a school of these torpedo-shaped, silver-blue fish into a concentrated area and then catch them one by one. A single fish can weigh as much as 5 kilos (11 pounds).

Although fishing using large nets would be easier, this method is avoided to prevent damage to the fish and the unintentional capture of other species.

Seasonal treasures

Bonito are primarily harvested twice a year: from March to May in spring and from September to November in fall. The fish caught during these periods are renowned for their differing yet exceptional flavors.

In the early 17th century, the great haiku poet Yamaguchi Sodo extolled,

The poet was expressing his delight at the harbingers of warmer months — one of which was the first bonito of the season. 

Riding the warm Kuroshio current up from the south, these Hatsukatsuo, first bonito, or Noborikatsuo, up-bound bonito, caught between March and May were historically so valued that they were considered almost worth “pawning your wife and children” to obtain. Celebrated for their mild flavor and lower fat content, these fish are said to be best served as katsuo no tataki, or seared bonito.

Those caught from September to November are Modorikatsuo, returning bonito, or Kudarikatsuo, going back bonito. These fish have eaten heartily during their southward migration, resulting in a higher fat content that contributes to a more delicate taste and texture, making it an excellent choice for sashimi.

Kochi is also famous for its himodori katsuo — bonito eaten the same day it is caught — prized for its luxurious freshness.

Bonito is by far the most popular fish in Kochi, particularly Kochi City, where households consume an average of 5,163 grams (11 pounds, 6 ounces) per year — far more than any other city in Japan. This consumption has fostered a wide array of cooking styles.

How bonito is eaten

Aside from katsuobushi, sashimi is widely popular. But in Kochi, bonito sashimi takes a backseat to the local specialty, katsuo no tataki. 

To prepare this delicacy, the bonito is cleaned and filleted, and all bones are carefully removed. The resulting quarters of the fish are skewered and held over a fire of rice straw until the outside is seared. This rapid grilling eliminates excess moisture and any lingering fishy smell, enhances the flavor, and creates crispy skin. The seared fish is promptly plunged into ice water to halt the cooking process, then drained and sliced. Katsuo no tataki is served with condiments and sauces that vary by region and individual chef.

Shio tataki, another popular dish, features warm grilled bonito lightly sprinkled with salt. Fishermen often eat it with thin slices of fresh garlic. Other condiments include ponzu, a sauce made from soy sauce and local citrus, as well as salt and garlic, myoga (a mild type of Japanese ginger), scallions, shiso (perilla) leaves, and nihaizu, a 50/50 mix of soy sauce and vinegar.

And there are more. Tosa-maki is rolled sushi filled with seared bonito, shiso leaves, and sometimes raw garlic. Another is harambo, broiled bonito belly served with salt. Chichiko, bonito heart, is generally prepared in one of two ways — stewed in a sweet and salty broth of ginger and soy sauce or simply grilled with salt.

For the more adventurous palate, there’s shuto, written with the Japanese characters for “sake” and “theft.” 酒盗 This peculiar name comes from the dish’s perfect pairing with sake, tempting drinkers to steal the tasty dish. Shuto is a paste made from the salted and fermented organs of bonito mixed with sake, mirin, honey, and onions, resulting in, shall we say, a unique and bold flavor.

Although I traveled far to learn about this amazingly versatile fish, the largest number of bonito caught in the country is right in Kagoshima Prefecture, my home.

The post Bonito — Ancient, Essential Basis of Japanese Cuisine 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.

It started with a generous gesture from a rival warlord

The Salt Road is an ancient trade route that has been all but forgotten, yet it winds its way through some of the most stunning scenery in Japan.

The Salt Road

For centuries, obtaining salt in the landlocked domain of Shinshu, present-day Nagano Prefecture, was a challenging task. Porters would undertake a perilous journey along a rough trail, braving steep slopes to transport salt and other goods from the Sea of Japan. This trail came to be known as The Salt Road. 

Its origin can be traced back to the Warring States Period of the 15th and 16th centuries. Takeda Shingen, a powerful warlord ruling over the Matsumoto area, faced a salt shortage when his access to salt from the Pacific coast was cut off by enemies in the south.

In a surprising act of nobility, Takeda’s arch-enemy, Uesugi Kenshin, offered to provide salt to him from his domain along the Sea of Japan, stating that battles should be fought with weapons, not through denying necessities, like salt, to the common people. Despite their lifelong rivalry, Uesugi wrote to Takeda, “A salt embargo is cowardly and unjust. I will fight you with bows and arrows, not with rice and salt. I beg you to henceforth obtain salt from my land…”

This act gave rise to the Japanese expression,  敵に塩を送る, Teki ni shio wo okuru, “sending salt to one’s enemy,” a metaphor for not taking ignoble advantage of an enemy’s weakness. From that point on, salt was regularly shipped from the coastal city of Itoigawa to Matsumoto along the 120 km long Salt Road.

Unlike the five main highways managed by the Tokugawa shoguns during the Edo Period (1603-1867), the Salt Road saw no glamorous daimyos’ processions and held no lavish inns. Though humble, it served as a lifeline for the mountainous landlocked provinces, characterized by steep and treacherous terrain, with modest post towns compared to those of the Nakasendo and Tokaido.

The porters, too, differed from their Five Highways counterparts. Called bokka, literally “walking loads,” they were often farmers and their wives. They traveled in groups of ten or more, sometimes accompanied by beasts of burden, primarily oxen and horses. Horses were well-suited for the flat sections of the road, but oxen proved their worth by their ability to navigate the treacherous mountain paths with sure-footed precision.

The bokka’s loads were heavy — one bale of salt alone weighed 47 kilos. These they carried on wooden framed packs, secured to their backs by braided-straw shoulder straps. On their return, the bokka bore hemp, tobacco, soybeans, medicine, cotton, and other goods, which they traded along the way or brought back to the port of Itoigawa to be sent on the Kitamae-bune trading ships to the Seto Inland Sea.

The journey along the Salt Road typically spanned six days. However, in cases where expedited shipping was necessary, such as transporting a load of salted and fresh fish, a porter could depart from Itoigawa at 4:00 pm and run through the night. Along the way, the porter would pass the cargo to relays, and although the distance was great, the goods could arrive in Matsumoto by the following morning.

Despite the challenging nature of the winding route through Japan’s precipitous Northern Alps, the Salt Road remained heavily traveled during and beyond the Edo Period. Trade along the trail peaked in the late 1600s, with pack animals and bokka porters continuously transporting goods along the long and hazardous path throughout the year. Winter posed the greatest challenge, as the mountain passes would often be buried under up to 5 meters of snow, making it impassable for oxen and horses. During these deep winter months, all goods had to be transported on the backs of the bokka, who crossed frozen streams and scrambled up steep ascents in their bamboo snowshoes.

Guardian Deities

To safeguard the bokka and their animals, numerous Shinto shrines and protective deities were placed along the road. The path is still adorned with comforting statues of Kannon, the Buddhist bodhisattva of mercy. In the most dangerous sections, one can find statues of Bato Kannon, the “Horse Head Goddess of Mercy,” placed to protect pack horses.

Dosojin guardians, small carved stones shaped like couples or sometimes represented merely by a rough stela, can frequently be seen in the more isolated parts of the highway and near mountain passes.

Jizo statues, often wearing red caps and bibs, also grace the highway. This compassionate bodhisattva attained enlightenment but deferred Buddhahood to watch over travelers and children. They are also found in villages where they look after the spirits of deceased children.

Other statues and markers along the trail serve as poignant reminders of those who perished during the journey, succumbing to exposure, exhaustion, or accidents. They stand as a silent testament to the hazards of the trek.

As railway construction flourished and the national highway opened during the Meiji period (1868-1912), the Salt Road fell into disuse. Nevertheless, walking along this lesser-known trail evokes a sense of the people, cattle, and horses that traversed it in centuries past. The road takes us through forgotten hamlets, majestic beech forests, and along clear mountain streams and ponds. The only sounds are birdsong and the rustling of leaves, the atmosphere imbued with the essence of bygone times.

If you would like to hike along the Salt Road and learn more about it, Walk Japan offers guided tours for small groups.

The post The Salt Road—Nearly Forgotten Trade Route Between Itoigawa and Matsumoto first appeared on More Than Tokyo and is written by Diane Tincher.

Even after all my years in Japan, I can’t help but agree

Through my personal, informal survey of what visitors to Japan find the most stand out and memorable, I have compiled this list of Japan’s top 10 awesome characteristics.

#10 — Polite drivers

Speed limits are low. Car safety inspections are mandatory, as is registered proof of a private parking place for your vehicle. Cars are generally not allowed to park on the side of the street.

Penalties for drinking and driving are so severe that they rarely, if ever, happen. 

For example, if I were to get into my car after drinking even a tiny bit, and I were caught by the police, I would lose my license, and not only me but each licensed driver in my car would be severely fined and liable to be imprisoned for up to 3 years. 

It is a rare person, indeed, who dares to drive after drinking.

Elderly people and people who have been driving for less than one year are required to put special magnetic stickers on their cars to let other drivers know to watch out for them.

Cars stop for people if they see them approach a crosswalk. Pedestrians wait at red crossing lights, even if there are no cars on the road. And the blare of a car horn is rarely heard.

In short, people show courtesy and follow safety rules which help to keep safety standards high.

#9 — Temples, shrines, and nature

Because the indigenous Japanese religion, Shinto, reveres many natural objects as kami or deities, shrines are often found in places of natural beauty, like this one in Yufuin, Oita.

Buddhist temples are places where one can take time to appreciate beautiful works of art and architecture, like this 14th-century pagoda within an ancient forest on Mount Haguro.

Natural beauty fills the country from the otherworldly landscapes of the far northeastern island of Hokkaido all the way to the distant tropical islands of Okinawa just west of Taiwan.

#8 — Art and Culture

Katsushika Hokusai and his “Great Wave Off Kanagawa” is perhaps the most iconic and well-known piece of Japanese art, but there are scores of outstanding artists who have been creating breathtaking masterpieces for centuries, and all are worthy of your time and appreciation.

Aside from visual arts, the ancient practice of tea ceremony continues, glimpses of geisha can still be caught along the backstreets of Gion in Kyoto, and Kabuki and Noh theater continue as they have for generations.

Shinto festivals also offer a wonderful and lively look into customs that have endured for centuries. 

#7 — Politeness and kindness

Comments from recent first-time visitors to Japan.

“I was trying to find a restaurant and was completely lost. I had taken a screenshot of the front of the restaurant from google maps, so I went into a convenience store and showed it to a young couple. The young man recognized it and walked with me the two blocks to the restaurant, went in, and talked to the manager to be sure I could be served as it was near after-lunch closing time.” 

“I love to watch the train inspector and food trolley woman bow to the passengers before leaving the train car.”

#6 — Punctuality

Trains depart promptly as scheduled. If some unforeseen delay causes a train to be even 30 seconds late, people can get a paper from the train station explaining the delay which they can present to their overseer at work in case of tardiness.

If an event is going to start at 7 PM, it will start at 7 PM.

If I make an appointment with someone at 10 AM two months from now, it will happen at 10 AM two months from now.

#5 — Cleanliness

“Everything seems to be sparkling clean! The attention to detail is astounding!” a visitor exclaimed.

Each person in Japan is responsible to keep their area clean. Shopkeepers sweep the sidewalk in front of their shops each morning before opening. People keep the sidewalk in front of their houses clean. Residents gather to clean their neighborhood parks and streets in the early morning of one Sunday each month.

Students clean their classrooms and their school buildings. There are no janitors at Japanese public schools — the responsibility to keep the school clean falls on the shoulders of the students.

One recent visitor I was guiding on a tour went back to the ladies’ room at the highway rest stop to take a photo of the fresh-cut flowers near the sinks, saying, “We sure don’t see that kind of thing along the Jersey Turnpike!”

 #4 — Onsens

Japan is located on the ring of fire, and as such is a land rich in thermal springs. There are many natural onsens, or hot spring baths, both indoor and outdoor, perfect for de-stressing and relaxing after a busy day.

Onsens are often situated in beautiful locations where one can soak in both the health-giving mineral waters and the surrounding natural beauty.

#3 — Food

Great food is inexpensive and delicious. You can hardly go wrong when eating out in Japan. And there is no tipping.

Tokyo is home to the most Michelin-starred restaurants in the world — 212. But great food is available all throughout the country, with each region priding itself in its own specialties. It’s no wonder that Japanese cuisine, or Washoku, was chosen as a UNESCO Intangible Cultural Heritage.

#2 — Bullet trains

There are not enough superlatives to describe Japan’s Shinkansen bullet trains. These trains are smooth, fast, quiet, comfortable, and scrupulously clean.

You can book tickets online, and some areas offer discount tickets when purchased online. International visitors can use hugely discounted rail passes to explore the country.

The trains are on time, and on the more popular segments, are staffed by uniform-clad women pushing trolleys selling snacks, cold beer, and delicious ice cream.

There are trash receptacles near the doors, so you don’t need to carry your snack wrappers home with you.

These trains epitomize convenience and comfort.

#1 — Toilets

By far, the feature that is most commonly remarked upon by visitors to Japan is its toilets. 

These sparkling clean engineering miracles come with:

• heated seats with temperature selection
• three bidet types that can be adjusted for the temperature of the water and strength of the spray
• a button to produce courtesy sounds of rushing water and sometimes even birdsong
• deodorant function
• your choice of large or small flush, and often, automatic flush
• newer models come with sensor-activated lid opening and closing

Would that all toilets be Japanese toilets! — and you can buy them in the US, too!

That list includes four of the five things I love about Japan. 

Have you visited or do you live in Japan? What do you like about the country and culture? I’d love to hear!

*The link to Amazon is an affiliate link.

The post 10 Things Visitors to Japan Think are Completely Awesome 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.

Aomori Prefecture’s Lake Towada is gorgeous

When I first read about Lake Towada in my Japanese geography and history studies, I was so captivated by its beauty that I knew I had to visit. 

I got my chance in 2021. JR East had made its bargain rail passes available to foreigners living in Japan, and I jumped at the opportunity.

On a bright October day, I flew into Haneda Airport in Tokyo from my southern city of Kagoshima, picked up my rail pass, and took the bullet train to Hachinohe, on the Pacific coast of Aomori.

It was a short walk and a quick bit of paperwork to get the rental car I had reserved, and I was ready to head towards Lake Towada on the border of Aomori and Akita Prefectures.

After a 90-minute drive on country roads, with the final stretch narrow, dark, and winding, I arrived at the hamlet of Yasumiya on the shore of Lake Towada.

I checked into the enormous hot springs hotel I had reserved. The huge lobby resembled a museum with works of art, signature boards of famous sumo wrestlers, and even festival floats displayed. A waterfall fell along the stone wall down between the onsens on the ground floor. 

I was one of only a few guests. Most wings of the hotel were blocked off.

Lake Towada Legend

Lake Towada was formed from numerous volcanic eruptions resulting in a broken crater lake within a larger crater lake.

It has long been considered sacred. Pilgrims would travel from far and wide to visit the lake. Tired from their travels, they would rest by the shore, which gave the town its name, Yasumiya 休屋, “resthouse.”

According to legend, a Shinto priest named Nansobo, after completing his pilgrimage to Kumano (in Wakayama prefecture), determined to continue his ascetic practices by walking throughout the country. 

Instead of the usual straw sandals, he strapped on iron sandals. “Wherever my sandals give out, I will make my home,” he said as he set off, staff in hand.

He walked for weeks. When he reached Lake Towada in the far north, his sandals finally gave out. 

Nansobo learned that an 8-headed dragon, Hachirotaro, ruled the lake. Once a local hunter, he had transformed into a dragon and had been ruling the lake from its depths for centuries.

The priest Nansobo himself transformed into a 9-headed dragon and battled fiercely with Hachirotaro for 7 days and 7 nights. Emerging victorious, Nansobo entered the lake as its new divine spirit.

From then on, people would come to the lake to partake of its magic. They offered money or rice twisted in white paper, coins, swords, and mirrors as prayers to Nonsobo, now Seiryu Daigongen, 青龍大権現, the azure dragon deity who inhabited the lake floor.

That is, until 1872 when the government ordered the division of Buddhism and Shinto. At that time the shrine was rededicated to the Shinto deity, Yamato Takeru, a semi-legendary 1st-century prince.

In the early 1900s, divers searched the lake bed and recovered a treasure trove of swords, old coins, and brass mirrors that had been offered to the azure dragon. Some of these are on display at a small, lakeside museum.

People continue the tradition of offering prayers at Lake Towada. But now, only prayers twisted in bits of white paper are tossed into the water, no more swords or mirrors. 

The way in which the papers float reveals to what degree one’s prayers will be answered. Vertically floating papers whose loose ends point down receive no answer. Horizontally floating papers are half answered. And those that float vertically with their loose ends at the top are fully answered.

Mining Town

Although pilgrims visited Towada over the centuries, the first settlements were founded in 1869, at the beginning of the Meiji Era (1868–1912). Soon after, gold and silver veins were discovered in the western mountains and miners flocked to the town. 

Unfortunately for them, due to the steep waterfalls of the Oirase river that flows from the lake, no fish had ever made it to Lake Towada. The men suffered from weakness due to the lack of protein in their diet. 

One miner quit the mines and set out to resolve this problem. In 1902, after nearly 20 years of failures and setbacks, Wainai Sadayuki succeeded in breeding himemasu, a variety of sockeye salmon from Hokkaido, in the lake. The men were saved and a local delicacy was created. 

Today, the healthy populations of himemasu and other varieties of fish introduced by Wanai have made Towada a popular fishing spot.

Towada’s Popularity Grows

Fuji for mountains, Towada for lakes.

Both peerless for beauty.

So wrote the poet Omachi Keigetsu, 大町桂月, in a popular magazine after he first visited Towada in the early 20th century. His enthusiastic admiration for the beauty of Towada, along with the Oirase gorge and the Tsuta lakes to the north, brought a surge of popularity to the region. 

As more and more people visited, Keigetsu sought to have the lake protected. He advocated for national parks to be established in Japan — first and foremost, the Lake Towada area.

Although he died in 1925 and was buried in Tsuta, just north of the lake, his efforts were not forgotten. 

In 1931, the Japanese government passed the National Parks Act. Three years later, the first national parks were established. And in 1936, Towada was made a national park.

The Maidens

In 1953, the poet and Western-educated sculptor Kotaro Takamura created his statue of The Maidens, 乙女の像, to mark the park’s 15th anniversary. Located between Towada Shrine and the lake, it remains, as Takamura wrote, “standing silently through the ages.”

Beginning in the mid-1950s, Japan’s economy experienced decades of unprecedented growth. Lifelong employment companies became the norm, and those working for such companies were required to participate in yearly, mandatory group vacations. Towada was a popular destination.

Huge groups of company employees followed two abreast in lines behind ladies dressed in smart uniforms, flags held high in their white-gloved hands. These groups followed their guide along the lakeside to view the statue of The Maidens and pay their respects at Towada Shrine. 

Then they would all pile into one of the huge boats that circled the lake, loudspeakers blaring tourist commentaries. 

The salarymen would then fill the many souvenir shops that lined the lake, shopping for gifts to bring to friends and acquaintances back home, before heading to their hotels to relax in the hot springs and enjoy a feast of food and sake.

In the early 2000s, thanks to these huge group tours, the number of visitors to Lake Towada peaked at 3 million per year.

Times have changed. 

Ghost Town

When I awoke to a fresh morning on my first day in Towada, I found a ghost town. Although a few shops were open, Yasumiya’s many shuttered buildings, closed businesses, and unused oversized hotels are a silent relic of its past heyday.

Restaurants were scarce, and the one I found that was open in the evening only took reservations made a day ahead. There were no supermarkets or convenience stores. 

If you wish to stay there, it’s best to plan your meals ahead.

Despite, or perhaps because of, its fallen popularity, the area’s pristine beauty thrives.

Driving around the lake I discovered a sea of koyo (also written kōyō), colored autumn leaves, disappearing into the distant mist. This vast forest is protected and never fell prey to reforestation with Japanese cedar that has caused so much trouble with the ecosystem in other areas of the country.

Later, I walked by the lake and took in the birdsong, the flutter of the leaves, and the gentle sounds of the water. 

Towada is also the perfect place from which to explore the magnificent, breathtaking, and otherworldly Oirase Gorge along the river that flows north from the lake.

References:

https://nyanto-matatabi.com/towadajinja/, https://towadako.or.jp/rekishi-densetsu/otomenozou/, https://www.city.towada.lg.jp/shisei/about/kouryu/oomachi.html, signs, books, and visiting.

The post Lake Towada — Hidden Treasure of Unrivaled Beauty first appeared on More Than Tokyo and is written by Diane Tincher.

A former trading hub, Sakata holds hidden treasures

I’d long been curious to visit the city of Sakata on the coast of Yamagata prefecture in northern Japan. Although far removed from the big cities of Tokyo, Kyoto, and Osaka, in years gone by, this quiet city was once a prosperous and bustling trading hub that rivaled Sakai, Osaka’s busy port. 

It was said:

西の堺、東の酒田

To the west, Sakai. To the east, Sakata.

I had to see it for myself.

So, after climbing Mount Haguro and exploring Tsuruoka city, I rode a comfortable express train 20 minutes north to Sakata.

Sakata’s Trading History

Until the late 1800s, Sakata was the capital of Dewa Province, which encompassed all of present-day Akita and Yamagata Prefectures. Its location along the Sea of Japan and on the edge of the Shonai plain — a major rice-producing area — contributed to its rich history.

Before the days of telegraphs or other means of fast communication, merchants in Sakata realized that they could capitalize on the variations in prices from region to region to make great profits.

They would buy local rice and other commodities, ship them down and around the island of Honshu, and sell them at a premium to merchants in Sakai, Osaka. This shipping route, along with the ships that plied them, came to be called, “north-bound ships,” or Kitamae-bune.

As the years passed, the size and speed of the ships increased. By the beginning of the 18th century, the first large Sengoku-bune were built. These fast sailing ships could carry a whopping 150 tons of rice.

Loading up the rice in Sakata were women as well as men. Although small in stature in those days, they regularly carried an impressive five bales of rice on their backs. With each bale weighing 60 kilos, that’s a heavy load!

After selling their cargo of rice in Sakai, the ships would return carrying ceramics, lacquerware, all kinds of household goods — and heavy stones for ballast.

As the years passed, the port continued to flourish. In 1893, the large Sankyo Rice Storehouses were built. Here, rice was inspected, its quality graded, and then stored for later shipping.

The storehouses were built near the mouth of the Mogami River. A fleet of small, shallow, fast boats carried rice from upriver to the storehouses. 

Zelkova trees were planted on the eastern side of the storehouses to provide shade to cool the buildings.

The builders created spaces between the roofs and the earthenware storehouses to allow for air to circulate to keep the buildings cool during the hot, humid summer months.

Of the 12 storehouses originally constructed, nine are still in use. Three have been converted into a museum and shops. 

When my curiosity was satisfied, I climbed on my rental bicycle and rode uptown to visit the former home of a remarkable family and local hero.

The Honma family

During the centuries of Sakata’s prosperity, one merchant family stood out among the rest, the Honmas. Through scrupulous trade, they grew from lowly merchants to becoming the biggest landowners in Japan. Their wealth surpassed that of many feudal lords.

An expression of the day was, 本間さまには及びもないが、せめてなりたや殿様に, “Becoming a Honma is too far out of reach, but let me become a lord, at least!”

In the mid-18th century, the 3rd generation family head, Honma Mitsuoka, became a legend in his own time for his contributions to the city of Sakata and its people.

He paid for the best craftsmen to come from Kyoto to construct estates and tea houses. These men provided priceless experience to local laborers who worked with them and learned their techniques. 

The city was soon filled with rows of beautiful shops, restaurants, and inns to cater to the many visitors who came to trade.

Although Honma Mitsuoka was undoubtedly known for his wealth, his true heroism came from his philanthropy. 

By 1783, Japan had already been suffering from several years of bad harvests when Mount Asama, northwest of Tokyo, erupted. This eruption killed hundreds of people, destroyed huge swaths of precious farmland, and plunged the country into devastating famine. 

To provide for those struggling, Mitsuoka donated his huge reserves of rice as well as substantial amounts of cash.

In later years, he paid for the construction of the Sakata lighthouse, and he had 10 cannons forged and set up for coastal defense.

Most famously, though, he devoted himself to solving a problem that had been plaguing local rice farmers for years.

The pine forest, Banri no Matsubara

Due to the indiscriminate felling of trees for construction and firewood, sand dunes had come to replace the forests along the long Sakata coast. Whenever strong coastal winds blew, the town and surrounding rice fields were covered with sand. 

Mitsuoka determined to reforest those sand dunes.

Per his instructions, his workers collected old roofing thatch and laid it on the sand dunes to use as fertilizer. He ordered thousands of salt-resistant black pine trees, and the villagers set to work planting them. Mitsuoka realized if they planted them one by one, they could easily be blown down. So the townspeople worked together to plant as many as they could.

The trees were regularly buffeted by strong winds that toppled many. The few trees that survived these ravages were the encouragement Mitsuoka needed to persevere.

After five years of difficult and very costly efforts, Mitsuoka and the townspeople had planted 10,000 sturdy trees covering 1,800 meters.

Today, Mitsuoka’s project has grown to cover a 34 km stretch of coastline from Tsuruoka in the south to the town of Yuza, north of Sakata city. This forest, called Banri no Matsubara, 万里の松原, has successfully prevented the devastating sandstorms that had ravaged crops and livelihoods.

What a wonderful and beautiful legacy to Mistuoka, the undeniable hero of Sakata.

There were still two little-known treasures I wanted to find. So, I left Sakata and followed the coast along the pine forest to its northern end.

The 16 Buddhas of Jūroku Rakan Iwa

Just north of Sakata and inland is the beautiful snow-capped volcano, Mount Chōkai, whose ancient eruptions created rugged rocks along the coast.

Among these volcanic rocks are sculptures of 16 Buddhist saints with an interesting history.

The story begins in the mid-1800s. These were difficult years for the people of Japan. Commodore Perry had shocked the nation with his show of formidable military strength  —  his four “black ships” carried more firepower than the entire shogunate possessed  —  and Japan had capitulated without a shot being fired, signing an unfair trade treaty with the US. 

Aside from this, the stability of the Tokugawa shogunate was being rocked by imperialists crying out for the re-establishment of rule by the emperor.

During these turbulent years, life for the poor peasantry became even more fraught.

In 1864, a Buddhist monk, Ishikawa Kankai, touched by their hardships, commissioned sculptors to create 16 Buddhist saints to pray for the people. 

The work took five years, with artisans sculpting masterpieces from the hardened lava.

These saints continue to pray for the prosperity, health, and virtue of the people, and they look after the fishermen out on the rough waters of the Sea of Japan. 

People still visit them today, offering coins and prayers for their blessings.

After paying my respects to these Buddhist saints, I went in search of my final treasure.

Maruike Pond

I headed inland, past rice fields, and down a narrow dirt path into a primeval forest. Rounding a corner, I was awed by the serene beauty of Maruike Pond. It’s small  —  only 20 meters in diameter and 3.5 meters at its deepest. Fallen trees are clearly visible through the crystal-clear, icy water. Like a dragon, so a sign told me, the trees rest at the bottom, preserved whole.

Some believers consider this beautiful pond to be the deity Maruike-sama, Lord Maruike, and as such, it and its contents are preserved, untouched. 

Rural Japan is rich in beautiful treasures of nature, interesting history, and amazing stories. I hope that I have been able to give you a small glimpse into the wonders it holds. 

Note on Perry’s black ships: “Kagawa Eizaemon, an aide to the Uraga magistrate, counted about 70 large-caliber cannons. The shogunate had roughly a hundred cannons around Edo Bay, but only 11 of these were of comparable caliber. With four ships, Perry had outgunned Japan’s supreme warlord.” Professor Mark Ravina, from his biography of Saigo Takamori.

References

https://www.rinya.maff.go.jp/j/kokuyu_rinya/kokumin_mori/katuyo/reku/rekumori/banri.html, http://tobifudo.jp/newmon/shinbutu/rakan.html

The post Sakata, Japan— From Fame to Obscurity, but the Beauty Lives On first appeared on More Than Tokyo and is written by Diane Tincher.

Sado Island’s lesser-known treasure

Last month I had the opportunity to visit the fascinating island of Sado, off the coast of Niigata Prefecture in northern Honshu. It felt like a land that time forgot, so charmingly rustic and old-fashioned were its buildings.

Located in the Sea of Japan, Sado was once home to mines that flourished from the early 17th century until the last one closed in 1989. Together, these mines produced an astounding 78 tons of gold and 2,300 tons of silver. That’s a lot of precious metals!

Nevertheless, I was surprised to learn that during those same years, 30% of the island’s wealth was concentrated in the quiet port town of Shukunegi.

Naturally, I had to explore.

Shukunegi

Shukunegi is on the southeast coast of Sado Island, an easy drive from my inn on the southwest coast. During the Edo era (1603–1867), the port bustled with trade. Hundreds of Sengoku-bune, a type of Japanese wooden sailing ship, were either based there or stopped by on their way to and from the port of Sakata, in the north, to Osaka on the far side of Honshu. 

The name, Sengoku-bune, means “1,000 koku ships.” Koku is a Japanese measurement that had long been used for rice. One koku equals 150 kilos. Rather than in currency, taxes were paid in numbers of koku of rice. Samurai received a set number of koku as their yearly wages. And Daimyo lords were judged wealthy by the number of koku of rice their domains produced.

These impressive sailing ships, the Sengoku-bune “1,000 koku ships,” carried 150,000 kilos of rice from the great rice-producing areas of northeastern Japan down to Osaka, stopping at ports along the way. They returned with pottery, various other goods, and remarkably, stones to replace the weight of the rice and provide necessary ballast for the ships.

You can spot these stones around the town, used in roads, foundations for buildings, monuments, and the like. One bridge in Shukunegi is made from stones carried on one of the Sengoku-bune all the way from Onomichi City, in what is today Hiroshima Prefecture.

Shukunegi is situated on a small piece of land surrounded on three sides by hills. In the late Edo era, the town along with the surrounding countryside consisted of 120 households and 500 residents. There were peasants, shipowners, captains, sailors, shipbuilders and carpenters, blacksmiths, and bucket makers. As well, there was a continuous stream of men who came and went on the Sengoku-bune.

People still live there today.

To fit the population in, architects had to be creative, fitting the buildings into small and irregularly shaped patches of land between streams and roads. They also made good use of any leftover wood from shipbuilding and from old, dismantled ships.

Prosperity threatened

In December of 1802, a 6.5 to 7.0 magnitude earthquake occurred that nearly put an end to Shukunegi’s prosperous trade. The land and sea levels along the coast were raised by two meters. The Sengoku-bune could no longer harbor in the small port. The sea had become too shallow.

Thankfully, one resourceful man came up with a solution.

Tarai-bune

Miso making requires fermenting soybeans with saltwater and rice koji — yes, the same koji that is used in making sake — in huge barrels made from cedar and bamboo. 

The story is told that a miso maker was gazing at his big barrels and struck upon an idea. He cut one in half and found that it made a fine shallow-bottomed boat. It was big and stable enough to haul freight to and from the Sengoku-bune anchored offshore.

That innovative miso-maker had made the first han-giri, or “half-cut.” The idea caught on. People started building these boats and adapting them, making them smaller and then oval-shaped. They came to be called tarai-bune, “washbasin boats.” They are controlled by using one long oar.

Fishermen use tarai-bune even today from which they hook abalone and flatfish from the shallow seafloor. Their small size makes them easy to navigate through the narrow waterways and coves of the Sado coast.

After being ferried about in a tarai-bune and seeing a surprising number of baby fugu pufferfish in the crystal-clear water, I headed off to explore the town’s museum.

Ogi Folk Museum

In 1920, an elementary school was built in Shukunegi. Due to population decline, the school was converted into a museum in 1972. 

A faithful reproduction of a Sengoku-bune nearly fills its auditorium, surrounded by a collection of old coins, beautiful ceramics, lacquerware, old chests, and other relics.

Each classroom is dedicated to a different category of objects. They are filled nearly to overflowing, giving me the impression that many grandmothers must have donated the contents of their many storerooms.

I was captivated by this amazing treasure trove of ancient and curious items, from old ema tablets, saddles, toys, shoes…

…to pipes, pottery, masu measuring boxes, toilets, fishing tools, bamboo products, and more. According to the gentleman who works there, who, incidentally, graduated from that elementary school, the building houses more than 30,000 items.

Yet, of all the hundreds of pieces of pottery in the museum, not one was made on Sado. All of it was brought in through trade, including Jomon era (14,000–300 BC) pots from neighboring Niigata.

After nearly being overwhelmed by the huge variety and amount of items to look at, I asked the fellow at the museum about a collection of Buddhist Jizo statues I had heard about. He knew what I meant. 

Since there was no one else at the museum, he left and led me down a long staircase into the heart of Shukunegi Town to a small graveyard. He told me the Jizo were behind a collection of statues.

We gingerly climbed up over the ancient statues and, indeed, the Jizo were there, grown over by grass and weeds. I guess there just aren’t enough people to get everything done in that small town.

This kind man then suggested that I might like to visit a cave nearby. After walking together back to the museum, I thanked him and then followed his directions to a staircase that led up from a narrow road.

Iwaya Cave

What I found up that stone staircase was a large sea cave created hundreds of thousands of years ago. Iwaya Cave is 70 meters above sea level, the rise in elevation is thought to have been caused by the major uplifts in the earth’s crust that occur about every 1,000 years in this area.

In this cave, archeologists have discovered ceramics dating from the Jomon era (14,000–300 BC) clear through to recent years, carvings from the middle ages, coins, ironware, and more. It is still a remarkable place, although questionably looked after.

Buddhist images carved into the cave walls are attributed to Kōbō Daishi, who founded Shingon Buddhism in the early 9th century. 

In the far back of the cave, in pitch dark, is an image of the Eleven-Faced Kannon, goddess of mercy, who sailors prayed to for safekeeping. My camera flash allowed me to capture its image.

In front of the cave are 88 stone Buddhas, representing the 88 sites of the pilgrimage on Shikoku island, established by Kōbō Daishi.

There are small towns like Shukunegi all over Japan, filled with interesting stories and hidden treasures. Fortunately for the people of Shukunegi, their town was declared an “Important Preservation District for Historic Buildings” in 1991. It is one of 126 such areas scattered across Japan that are being preserved, and they are well worth searching out.

Although we tend to think of the past as remote and distant, much of it lives on in rural Japan — in towns like Shukunegi. 

The post Shukunegi, Japan — The Town Where People Fish from Barrels first appeared on More Than Tokyo and is written by Diane Tincher.

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.

Funny things do happen

Rain was pouring down as my train pulled into Sakata station in Yamagata Prefecture. That cool cloudy morning, I had left my shrine lodging on Mount Haguro and spent the day exploring the charming town of Tsuruoka. I was visiting the beautiful Zenpoji temple complex about 40 minutes outside the town when the rain started in the early afternoon.

I don’t mind the rain, one of my daughters in the US sent me great rain gear for hiking, but my shoes were not waterproof. I decided to head to Sakata earlier than I had planned.

Exiting the train, I passed through the ticket gate and out of the small station. My hotel was 2 km away. I was pulling a small suitcase in addition to carrying a backpack, and I was feeling a bit tired, so I opted to take a taxi.

After a quick check-in, I took off my rain jacket in my room and noticed that the chest pocket of my fleece — my dedicated ticket pocket — was open.

It was empty.

Where was my rail pass?

I checked all my pockets.

I thought hard.

Blank.

My 5-day rail pass cost ¥18,000 (about $150) and would be nearly impossible to replace. It allowed me to travel on trains, including the Shinkansen, all over northeastern Japan and down to Tokyo. And I still had 3 days left.

What had I done with my pass?

Perhaps I left it in the ticket machine at the station. When tickets are left, the machine sucks them in and deposits them in a container with used tickets.

Life had thrown me a fresh challenge.

Or was it me that had done the throwing?

My adventure leveled up

I had added another layer of adventure to my trip with a new task — find the lost rail pass.

I did an internet search for JR East’s lost and found. The woman on the line contacted the local station, and I waited while the employee sorted through every ticket from the ticket machines.

No luck.

The taxi company phone number was on the receipt. I gave them a call. In a few minutes, they called me back. No rail pass was left in the taxi.

Then I was really puzzled.

My mind was completely blank from the time I walked to the turnstile until I decided to take the taxi.

There was nothing left to do.

I decided to go to the station and look on the floor. Maybe I had dropped it.

The rain was still falling. I didn’t want to spend money on another taxi. This trip was a gift from one of my sons. Money is tight these days. Because of the pandemic, I have lost all income from leading tours and many of the classes I used to teach. I would save money and walk.

Then, not wanting to ruin my non-waterproof shoes, I opted to run.

I ran 2 km to the station.

I am not a runner. A swimmer, yes. A hiker, a walker. But running is not my sport. Yet, I did it with relative ease.

After patting myself on the back for my impressive stamina, I scanned the immaculately clean station floor. There was not a scrap of paper to be seen.

I went to the office window in the station. The gentleman assured me he had gone through every single ticket and my train pass wasn’t there. A woman stood beside him, looking like she wished she could help.

After some discussion about the lost pass, I explained that I would need it for my 6:45 train the day after tomorrow. Could I get it replaced?

“Not at this station. We are too small. We have no way to issue those passes.”

Then he asked, “Are you sure you don’t have it anywhere?”

“No, I checked all my pockets.”

He and the woman went into the backroom to do a little research as to how to help me.

It was then that I looked down.

My rain jacket has a pocket in exactly the same spot as my fleece’s dedicated ticket pocket.

I unzipped it.

There was my pass!

“Sumimasen!” I called to the station employees. “I found it!!”

They came out of the backroom, all smiles.

After profuse apologies and many bows from me, we all rejoiced in that happy ending.

Much relieved, I went out of the station just as a bus pulled up. I popped my head in and asked the driver if he would be going down the street that passes my hotel.

“Sure, hop on!”

It was a grand adventure in the rain.

…but it did leave me wondering about my mental state.

The post It’s All Part of the Adventure—of Travel and of Life first appeared on More Than Tokyo and is written by Diane Tincher.