by Kōji Suzuki
The path meandered upwards. Around seven, a light fog settled in. Out of nowhere in particular, I could hear noises that could have been raindrops or branch tips brushing together. I stopped every time I heard it to gaze in the direction of the sound. If it was rain, I needed to take my rain gear out of my backpack, as occasionally a drenching squall would pass through these parts.
I strained my ears, but it didn’t seem to be rain. Apparently raindrops or dew left on the leaves were getting tossed about by wind and the supple tree trunks were amplifying the sound. I decided to pay it no heed and climb on. I passed through a pair of giant boulders called Futatsu Iwa. By the time I reached Taiko-no-Tsuji, the terminus for the time being of the uphill path, it was nine. That meant I’d been walking through the precipitous terrain without a proper rest break for three hours.
By that time my shirt and sweatshirt were soaked with sweat and I was gasping for breath. There, I encountered a man around sixty, apparently a Shugendo ascetic, sitting on a rock and staring at the opening of the mountain trail. He was garbed in traditional mountain ascetic attire—a white suzukake robe, wide hakama pants, split-toed socks with heavy soles, a kerchief on his head. He held a khakkhara ringed staff, and a goatskin pelt for sitting was strapped to his backside.
I was surprised to be greeted by him as if he’d known all along that I’d be climbing up there. As soon as I met his gaze in order to return the greeting, his face broke into a giant smile. He called out in a loud, jolly voice, but I couldn’t make out what he was saying. Perhaps he was speaking in a local dialect since I couldn’t understand a single word. I nodded silently in reply and slowly made my way closer to the rock on which the ascetic sat. He said a few more words, and still I couldn’t comprehend him. I decided to offer a conventional greeting.
“Hello.”
The ascetic indicated the spot next to him on the rock. “You did well coming up here,” the man approved joyfully. This time I got what he was saying. His words were suddenly registering in my brain as if my ear pressure had just normalized and my hearing had been restored.
“Where to?” I inquired after his destination as I sat down on the rock.
“What? Oh, I’m just here to greet.”
I wasn’t entirely sure of his meaning. Did he mean he was sitting here greeting all hikers from Zenkiguchi one by one, or did he have some sort of religious reason?
Perhaps sensing my confusion he explained, “A group of pilgrims walking the Omine-Okugake route is scheduled to pass here around noon.”
I finally understood. Fifty or so Shugendo practitioners who had left Yoshino two days prior had crossed Mt. Sanjo and Mt. Yayama and would be passing here around noon on their way back to Zenkiguchi along the trail I’d just climbed. The ascetic further explained that he traveled up the mountain the same day each year to that very spot to greet pilgrims, to show appreciation for their efforts, and to give them encouragement for the final bit of their journey.
Since ancient times, the “ordered peaks” route for the Omine-Okugake pilgrimage had been to walk from the Kumano Sanzan shrines across the Omine mountain range to Yoshino. The opposite route, from Yoshino through the Omine mountain range to Kumano Sanzan, was called “reverse peaks.” Nowadays, most Omine-Okugake pilgrims walked the “reverse peaks” route, while the other one that went from Yoshino through Mt. Yayama over the mountain ridge and ending here in Taiko-no-Tsuji had fallen into disuse. Further south past that point, Mt. Tengu, Mt. Jizo, Mt. Nehan, and Mt. Kasasute were impregnable, without so much as an animal trail, so the pilgrims had no choice but to go downhill to Zenkiguchi from Taiko-no-Tsuji.
After I asked the man for directions to Mt. Yayama, he looked me over with narrowed eyes. “With your body, you’d probably get there in eight hours.”
Eight hours from now meant I could get to the hut by 5 p.m. Even so, I didn’t feel like resting for much longer, partly because I worried the ascetic may have overestimated the strength of my legs.
“Well, I should get going now.” I stood and bowed, and started out towards Mt. Dainichi. The ascetic retrieved two staffs from the clump of bushes behind his rock, tucked them under his elbows, and stood up. Until then, I hadn’t noticed the two staffs hidden in the bushes.
“I’ll come with you a short ways.” He stepped in front of me and started walking. He planted the two staffs on the ground before him, swung both legs through the air, and landed in a crouch. I was so stunned that I stopped walking.
“Something the matter?” the ascetic asked, looking back. I tried to continue walking as if nothing had happened, but I was so agitated that I couldn’t take a step. Had I seen this manner of locomotion in the world down below, it wouldn’t have affected me. But we were right next to Mt. Dainichi, which was over 6,500 feet above sea level. It was an arduous climb to the summit even for those in tip-top shape. When I thought of the treacherous trail I’d just taken from Zenkiguchi, I was overwhelmed by what I was witnessing. Both of his legs were clearly prosthetics from the hip down, which meant that he had come all this way relying only on the strength of his two arms and the staffs.
As I followed behind him, I gradually began to accept the fact. The two staffs held fast against his elbows had become a part of his body, and he could easily avoid any obstacles along the path. His movements were determined and nimble as if to reject any helping hands that might be proffered. Whether he had lost his legs earlier in life or it had been congenital, he emanated a powerful commitment to overcome the fate he’d been burdened with. Watching him negotiate the humus with his staffs instead of his feet cheered my heart bit by bit.
The ascetic and I went separate ways at Jinsen-no-Shuku, the midway point between Mt. Dainichi and Mt. Shaka, and I entered the steep climb up Mt. Shaka alone. The ascetic loitered there for a while, glancing up the path, and waved boldly at me before retracing his steps. We had promised to see each other again after I returned to the Zenkiguchi pilgrim’s lodge two days later.
The first couple of hours were always the toughest part of a climb, but after that I found my pace and had an easier time of it. It took about an hour to get from Jinsen-no-Shuku to the peak of Mt. Shaka. I kept up a pretty brisk pace just as the ascetic had predicted.
“With your legs, you’d be there in about an hour,” he’d said encouragingly before we parted.
By noon the fog had completely lifted, and from the summit I could look down through the sparsely forested mountain ridges into the valleys below. A cluster of strangely shaped stones stood exposed on the bare mountain surface. After I stared at them for a while, each started to look like a statue of the Buddha.
Suddenly, I heard a sound like someone was blowing a conch shell in the distance. When I listened intently, I noted that after the conch shell a group of people chanted Buddhist prayers in unison. The voices seemed to be coming from different places, changing with the shifting wind, but the general direction was from Mt. Yayama, my destination. A group of Omine-Okugake pilgrims were apparently on their way as the ascetic had mentioned.
From the shadow of a boulder appeared a man with neat features, beads pressed between his palms and in front of his face in prayer-pose. He was the officiating monk leading the pilgrims.
Three Shugendo practitioners that followed him blew on conch shells simultaneously, stood at the base of the trail, and called out in robust voices: “Repent, repent.”
“Purify the six senses,” the other pilgrims chanted in response.
Repent, repent, purify the six senses.
Repent, repent, purify the six senses.
The fifty pilgrims repeated the call-and-response prayer countless times as they summited the mountain. The six senses referred to in the Buddhist prayer were sight, hearing, smell, taste, touch, and consciousness—the sum total of body and mind that makes up a person. The idea was that offering penitence and sharpening and purifying the senses humans were endowed with led to becoming one with the spirit of the mountain. Panting as they climbed, the pilgrims pr
ayed, imbuing the chant with their own thoughts, and one by one reached the peak. They bowed slightly when our eyes met, and I returned with an inclination of my head. As if to greet all the pilgrims on their way to see the Sakyamuni statue on the peak, I stood there for twenty minutes. Once they surrounded the Sakyamuni statue in a circle, the monk led them in a recital of the Heart Sutra.
Maka Hannya Haramita Shin Gyo
Kanjizai bosatsu,
gyojin hannya haramitta ji,
shoken goon kaiku,
do issai kuyaku, Sha-ri-shi:
shiki fui ku, ku fui shiki,
shiki sokuze ku, ku sokuze shiki
Garbed entirely white, the pilgrims rubbed their prayer beads, kept rhythm by shaking their khakkhara, and poured their various thoughts into the Heart Sutra as they recited it. As I watched from behind, I had the urge to try and peek into every pilgrim’s heart. I wondered what they were praying for, what sins they were burdened with. Below the goatskin pelts slung across their backsides, their pant legs smeared with mud told of the treacherous journey they’d undertaken. What was it that they were trying to gain through so much effort?
Before arriving in the mountains, I had read a number of books explaining the Heart Sutra to get the general gist of its sense. It was the most common prayer recited on Mt. Omine, and I was also curious to know what was written in a short sutra of only 263 Japanese characters.
The world is emptiness. The components that comprise man’s body and awareness—eyes, ears, nose, tongue, body, and mind—do not exist. Nothing is created, and therefore nothing can be destroyed. There is no impurity nor purity, no increase nor decrease. Therefore, since there “is” nothing, one should relinquish all attachments. That way the human heart can be freed from suffering, and peace will visit one’s heart … I interpret the first part as such. There are many things I can’t swallow if it ends there. If “life” engenders suffering and has to be relinquished to annul suffering, how are humans supposed to lead their current lives? Do people have to live as if they’re dead? Accepting for a moment that “life” means stepping into mud, shouldn’t one keep going once the first step is taken? Not teaching the way to go on and instead declaring that neither this nor that “is” seems, well, pointless.
But the Heart Sutra doesn’t fail to offer a helping hand in its coda. A mantra meant to ease all suffering:
Gaté Gaté Paragaté Parasamgaté, Bodhi Svaha!
It’s the only section of the Heart Sutra, originally a mixture of Sanskrit and Pali, that was simply transliterated for the Japanese version. Translating it, they must have feared, risked stripping away the sonority of the original and thereby its miraculous efficacy. Of course, religious figures have attempted to render the line in Japanese. As long as it retains the essential meaning, it’s a free for all.
Go, go, together to cross there, blessed be enlightenment!
Many religious figures interpret its sense thus.
I can’t get rid of the impression that the sutra suddenly changes its tone at that point. Up until then, it’s been denying that anything “is,” but all of a sudden it’s “go,” which almost sounds encouraging. The world is filled with all manner of suffering, including the four inevitabilities of life—birth, aging, sickness, and death—and while it may feel meaningless to keep on living, the mantra says to “go” anyways. No matter how cruel life may be, the world is still filled with beauty. The living cannot afford to be just pure. Drag your legs or even crawl if necessary, but go through this transient world. After that, one will surely attain enlightenment.
The Shugendo practitioners were chanting the final mantra of the Heart Sutra:
Gaté Gaté Paragaté Parasamgaté, Bodhi Svaha …
Their voices grew louder all at once, their hands gripping their khakkhara tighter. They were commanding their own hearts, and their thoughts floated on the wind, traveling down the exposed mountain surface and wending between the trees. This, without a doubt, was what I’d sensed on the road along the foothills on the trip I’d taken two summers ago.
The car climbed the uphill road, a succession of steep curves.
“Hm? What?” my wife asked.
I glanced at the rearview mirror to look at the back seat. “What do you mean, ‘What’?” I asked in return as I didn’t remember saying anything to her. I’d been gripping the steering wheel in silence for some time. The uphill road was tough going, and I was constantly looking ahead for any oncoming traffic from around the sharp turns. I hadn’t the attention to spare to make small talk.
“You were mumbling something,” she said.
I realized only then that I had gone from repeating vaguely remembered snatches of the Heart Sutra in my mind to actually reciting it out loud. Recalling the scene at Mt. Shaka I’d witnessed the previous month automatically made me think of the mantra of the sutra, the part that went Gaté Gaté.
“It was nothing,” I laughed.
“Weirdo,” my wife sighed.
The mantra must have sounded to her like a frog croaking.
I found a wide shoulder on the road and parked the car. The route had been zigzagging uphill for quite some time. The settlement, though, was nowhere to be seen. I’d stopped because I was suddenly worried that we’d ventured onto the wrong road.
Pulling up the handbrake, I turned to the backseat and asked my wife, “Hey, is this really the right way?”
“What? But …” Probably not sure herself, she gave me an anxious look and peered into the map.
Under it I could see the two small faces of my daughters sleeping quietly. I touched their smooth cheeks with my hand. “Let me see it,” I said and took the roadmap and faxed directions from my wife’s hands.
Trying to figure out if we had taken a wrong turn somewhere, I went back to the starting point on the map and retraced our tracks. I also considered the directions from the old man we’d met along the way. There was no way we’d gotten anything wrong. Assuming the old man had told us the truth, this road was supposed to lead directly to the small settlement of Ura. Still, the thought of there being a settlement this deep in the woods was endlessly puzzling. After the settlement, the road disappeared as if the forest swallowed it up. This was the only route the residents could take to go down the mountain for shopping and other needs, but we’d yet to encounter a single car.
“All right. Let’s try going a little further.” I gave the map back to my wife.
“I think we’re okay …” As if to belie her words, her voice was weaker.
As I faced forward and started to pull out, in the deep V of the valley I could see a single spray of water on the eastern slope. Subterranean creeks gathering across the folds of the mountain were pouring into the Mibu River several hundred yards below. The sun was just setting behind the western ridges, and the boundary between light and shadow was creeping towards the center of the waterfall. Bathed in the last rays of sunlight, the waterfall glittered golden, spilling cool sprays of water down into the river.
“Look, over there. A waterfall,” I said, pointing diagonally to the front.
“Where, where?” my wife cried, craning forward and staring at it in awe. As we gazed, the waterfall slipped into the shade, and the golden spray turned silver.
I had experienced the ascetic practice of sitting under a waterfall a month prior. After safely completing the journey from Mt. Shaka to Mt. Yayama and back, I returned to the base lodge in Zenkiguchi. The legless ascetic was waiting for me there as promised. He asked me when I planned to return to Tokyo. When I replied that I was leaving the next day, he invited me to see Uragyoba early the next morning. About three miles from the lodge was a beautiful waterfall called Mie-no-Taki where, he said, Shugendo practitioners trained.
The next morning, I woke up while it was still dark and walked the muddy path with the help of a flashlight. I walked down the dry riverbed and across a mountain stream and climbed up the rocky stretch along the waterfall. The rocks that rose up almost perpendicularly were wrapped in
chains, and I had to hoist myself up by grabbing hold of them. I was willing to carry the ascetic on my back if it proved necessary, but he insisted he could climb the rest of the way on his own as long as I lifted him to the tree trunk from halfway up the rock. I did as told, and he crawled up the rocks like a butterfly. The muscles in his arms must have been incredibly well-tempered, having served as his legs on a daily basis.
At the very top of the rocks was the basin of the first of three consecutive waterfalls, the Fudo-daki. In the crisp air, day was just about to break in the eastern sky. The water in the basin shone green with incomparable clarity. I felt an intense urge to soak in that water. The ascetic prompted me to strip down to my underwear. I walked around the basin to the base of the waterfall and folded my legs into the lotus position. For June, there wasn’t much water, and the sheet that slipped off the rocks wasn’t very thick. Even so, I could feel the intense pressure of the water as it cascaded onto my back. The pressure then morphed into a piercing pain, chilling me to the bone. I couldn’t stand it anymore. As I felt the freezing water run in a single stream from my head to my back to my legs, the ascetic gave a cry. Taking that as my cue, I got out of the basin.
My chilled body gradually recovered its heat in June’s mild morning weather. At the same time, the sensation of having been refreshed, of the filth and impurities accumulated in my body having been washed away, slowly wrapped around my body.
I was reincarnated. After walking the mountain spurs and getting pounded by the waterfall, I had sloughed off a skin. There I was, exuberant at being alive. There was I, with great expectations for my new job and for watching over my daughters as they grew up.