“Murakami writes with admirable discipline, producing ten pages a day, after which he runs ten kilometres, works on translations, and then reads, listens to records and cooks, and cooks. His passions colour his non-fiction output, from What I Talk About When I Talk About Running to Absolutely On Music, and they also seep into his novels and short stories, providing quotidian moments in his otherwise freewheeling flights of imaginative enquiry.” from Murakami 2020 Diary.
Absolutely On Music‘s target is classical music-lovers. Others may not be able to follow the dialogues without a familiarity with the musical pieces discussed. Some of the conversations covered are: Beethoven Third Piano Concerto, Brahms at Carnegie Hall, The Relationship of Writing to Music, Eugene Ormandy, Gustave Mahler, Shin’ichi Mori, and Opera.
This internationally-acclaimed writer transports you to a disturbing dystopian island where everyone and everything gradually disappears, leaving its vulnerable inhabitants at the mercy of a terrifying totalitarian regime.
Imagine, if you will, waking up knowing something seems strange, eerie and definitely off, but you’re not sure what’s bothering you. Still unsure a few hours later, you chat with your neighbors and you collectively realize all the bells have been removed from your island, or the ribbons have been removed from drawers, or even worse the birds have disappeared from the sky. Adding to the peculiarity, you don’t feel any emotion, sentimental longing, or nostalgia. It’s as if the bells and ribbons and birds never existed in the first place. Despite your complacency, you know life is a living hell for those unlucky few who still feel attached to anything that has vanished. They hide away knowing they’ll be hunted down by the Memory Police and removed from society for remembering the value of anything that dematerializes. This is the premise of Yōko Ogawa’s latest book, originally published in Japanese in 1994, and now expertly translated into English by Stephen Snyder.
Ogawa has won nearly every literary prize Japan has to offer and her popularity is up there with Haruki Murakami thanks to her gentle prose, the detailed portrayal of her characters, and gripping plots which are written with conviction and precision. Fans of Murakami will see similarities in Ogawa’s writing style and the way she interweaves fantasy with reality but they’ll also appreciate her softer and more delicate approach. Onion skins are described as butterfly wings and the finger nails on a child are likened to flower petals as they flutter to the floor, soft and transparent.
Some say Murakami and Ogawa owe their huge international appeal to the lack of Japanese cultural references in their books and the fact Western food, lifestyles, and ideologies are entrenched in most of their stories. This isn’t entirely true: The characters in this book maintain their sense of what it is to be Japanese. You can’t help but groan and feel uneasy, along with the unnamed narrator, when the Memory Police fail to remove their shoes at the entrance to her home and stomp all over the tatami flooring, knowing this is a definite no-no in Japan. The narrator also offers friends her Japanese-style room when they need somewhere to stay, confirming her inner need to maintain omotenashi (authentic Japanese hospitality) even in extreme circumstances. Green tea is served and fish is steamed in sake. An old lady at the market wears work pants fashioned out of kimono material, an earthquake strikes the island (a common occurrence in Japan), and when the roof of the old man’s boat gets sucked under the sea Ogawa describes it as folding like origami, proving once again the author cannot escape her desire to write stories with ties to Japan.
Ogawa explores kindness, benevolence, vulnerability, and death in this novel. It not only makes you wonder how you feel about others, it’s also about how much you’re prepared to sacrifice and whether you’d extend a helping hand to people you don’t know well. The narrator, a novelist, risks her life to hide her editor from capture, she fills an old lady’s basket full of celery when food is scarce because her situation is so sad, and she takes in the next-door neighbor’s dog when its owners are arrested. Her mother is also taken away and dies at the hands of the Memory Police when she’s a child and this loss stays with her throughout the book.
When the narrator is faced with the possibility of something terrible happening to her friends, the old man and her editor, she’s unable to control her emotions and bursts into tears. Her youth and naivety make her feel inherently weak but her caring editor explains these tears are a point of strength and encourages her to take solace in the fact that if you look deep within yourself, you can find enormous power and fortitude in difficult circumstances.
“I think all this crying must be proof that my heart is so weak that I don’t know how to help myself.”
“But I’d say it’s just the opposite. Your heart is doing everything it can to preserve its existence. No matter how many memories these men take away, they’ll never reduce it to nothing.” (pg. 158)
This novel also brings to mind Anne Frank who writes a diary to express her fears, disappointments, thoughts, and feelings while she hides in an attic apartment in Amsterdam during World War II. Similarly, the narrator here is trying to complete a novel about a singer trapped by her sadistic typing teacher in a room with no access to the outside world where she loses all sense of what it is to be herself.
This book makes you think on a deeper level and not just about who the Memory Police are and why all these people feel nothing when everything in their lives is disappearing. It prompts you to reconsider what truly matters to you and who is important in your life.
Ogawa has a brilliant way of appealing to your five basic senses whenever her characters are feeling traumatized. The Memory Police are described as having forceful, rhythmic boots. You can almost see and hear them marching strictly in unison, dreading every step as they pass. At their headquarters, the officers pace back and forth
“but no voices could be heard, no sound of laughter. Nor was there any music playing. Just the ringing of heels against the hard floor.” (p. 102)
It’s profoundly disconcerting. Your reading pace accelerates and your heart beats faster as you picture every intimidating scene focusing on these authoritarian law enforcement officers, inhumane and devoid of any shred of sympathy. Ogawa wants you to see, hear, and feel all of this terror and tension. She reaches into the inner-workings of the psyche and probes your feelings and emotions as you consider the harrowing psychological impact of each scenario on her characters.
Several questions remain unanswered at the end. This may bother some readers when they reach the final page, but do you really need every story to finish tied up in a neat little bow? The Memory Police leaves you with fundamental moral and political questions. Great books make you think laterally and give rise to discussion. This novel does exactly that. It’s one book you’re unlikely to ever forget.
Yōko Ogawa’s fiction has appeared in The New Yorker, A Public Space, and Zoetrope. Since 1988 she has published more than twenty works of fiction and nonfiction, and has won every major Japanese literary award.
The Nakasendo was an Edo Period (1603-1868) road used for travel between the capital of Edo (Tokyo) and Kyoto, the former capital. The 69 post towns along the way provided accommodation and services to daimyo and their entourages, who passed through on their sankin kōtai biennial visits to the Tokugawa shogunate.
I’m set to hike the most popular and picturesque section, the lower Kiso Road, from the post town of Magome-juku in Gifu Prefecture to the next, Tsumago-juku in Nagano Prefecture. Over this 7-kilometer stretch, I aim to get some insight into the local palates and what travelers may have eaten along the path when it was Japan’s most-traveled highway.
Though it’s well known that the poet Matsuo Basho wandered the Nakasendo, it is Magome’s native son, Toson Shimazaki, who is most inextricably linked to this section of the Kiso Road. The Shimazaki family served as the village headmen, taking care of the feudal lords as well as pilgrims such as Basho and others who passed through.
In Magome-juku, the atmosphere is thick with the ubiety of Shimazaki (1872-1943), who is one of Japan’s most celebrated authors. The controversial figure (who fled to France after impregnating his niece) can perhaps be sensed in the stickiness of the local specialty, gohei mochi (grilled rice on a stick topped with sweet miso), while his softer side as progenitor of modern Japanese poetry is palpable in the marriage of textures and flavors of the various provincial chestnut confections.
Arriving in late afternoon, I stopped at the acclaimed Cafe Kappe along the steep main street inlaid with large flat stones. Inside, I found the proprietor sitting at one of the tables peeling a mound of chestnuts. “Chestnut parfaits!” she said with a smile. I ordered one and noshed on it while gazing at Mount Ena (2,191 meters) straight out the window.
I had booked into Eishoji, a Zen temple (formerly Manpukuji Temple in Shimazaki’s book “Before the Dawn”). Temple cats lounged around decoratively in the garden.
I had not come for the visuals, however, but rather the victuals: the shōjin ryōri (vegetarian food for Buddhist priests) for which the temple is known.
In a formal tatami room facing the garden a dozen bowls and plates of food were waiting for me. I immediately felt tense when I noticed that the scroll overshadowing me from the tokonoma (decorative alcove) bore the kanji for “patience.”
Eishoji temple’s bowl of tofu in a light sauce
The priest’s wife explained the dishes: ganmadoki (fried tofu made with shaved lotus root and potato), a bowl of fresh tofu in a light sauce, a square of sesame tofu with a drip of wasabi on top, steamed green vegetables, boiled pumpkin artfully arranged in a blue side dish, a sweet red plum, eggplant boiled to a sheen and graced with miso sauce, cucumber salad, soba noodles, a generous bowl of raw pink ginger and locally harvested rice. Plus tea, of course. She politely bowed, left the room, and I dug in, completely ignoring the ancient scroll’s advice.
A “kurikinton” candied chestnut.
After a visit to the Shimazaki family grave in the morning, I left the temple’s moss-laced pathways ringing with bird-song and continued up the steep Magome hill seeking treats for the trail. I procured individually wrapped kurikinton candied chestnuts from a confectionery run by a toothsome dowager who said she had lived in this village her whole life.
At the top of the hill, I glanced back at Mount Ena and the Mino Valley before padding across the ishitatami, the inlaid stones that mark the ancient Kiso Road.
The well-preserved trail is studded with tea houses, rest spots, toilets and water at regular intervals. After 5.5 km, the route crosses into Nagano Prefecture and the Magome Pass (801 meters), which winds down into Otsumago.
At times the route follows a stream, hopscotching from one side to the other via wooden pedestrian bridges. The two waterfalls are not-to-be-missed, and it is at the bottom of the Odaki waterfall that I enjoyed my kurikinton delicacies.
I drank sake with a little wooden horse.
Golden rice fields begging to be harvested and whispering fūrin wind chimes dangling in front of row houses greeted me as I descended into the hamlet of Tsumago-juku, where women were hand-making straw coned hats from hinoki (Japanese cypress). Small shops purveyed souvenirs and wooden toys.
Rows of soba shops that previously fed the legions of attendants to the daimyo during the Edo Period now serve their replacements: tourists who stream in by the hundreds via bus.
Suddenly, a tall man with a friendly smile hailed me from the open doors of a latticed wooden house: “Oyaki!” I bought one of the vegetable-filled hot buns and another stuffed with walnut paste. Mr. Hara has been selling oyaki from this shop since returning to his hometown 26 years ago.
“Matcha azuki” shaved ice.
Having arrived at my destination, I sampled the Jurokudai Kuroemon sake at a quiet shop called Shirokiya facing the old road, and imbibed with my companion, a small toy horse made from sakura cherry wood. Perhaps the sake invigorated me because after this short rest I yearned to go a little further that day. I hiked another 5 km to Nagiso Station in Midono.
I’m glad I did, because I discovered the perfect way to end a hot day on the Nakasendo: with a matcha azuki shaved ice desert at Cafe Izumiya, across from the station.
This article originally appeared in The Japan Times as part of a series called “Gourmet Trails.“
Find out more about “Walking the Kiso Road” by listening to Hon Podcast No. 5 where we talk to the author, William Scott Wilson about the book. The Kiso road is one section of the Nakasendo route to Edo. This section of the Kiso Road includes 11 post towns, 10 in Nagano Prefecture and one in Gifu Prefecture.
Book Description:
Step back into old Japan in this fascinating travelogue of the famous Kiso Road, an ancient route used by samurai and warlords, which remains much the same today as it did hundreds of years ago.
Take a trip to old Japan with William Scott Wilson as he travels the ancient Kiso Road, a legendary route that remains much the same today as it was hundreds of years ago. The Kisoji, which runs through the Kiso Valley in the Japanese Alps, has been in use since at least 701 C.E. In the seventeenth century, it was the route that the daimyo (warlords) used for their biennial trips—along with their samurai and porters—to the new capital of Edo (now Tokyo). The natural beauty of the route is renowned—and famously inspired the landscapes of Hiroshige, as well as the work of many other artists and writers. Wilson, esteemed translator of samurai philosophy, has walked the road several times and is a delightful and expert guide to this popular tourist destination; he shares its rich history and lore, literary and artistic significance, cuisine and architecture, as well as his own experiences.
About the Author:
William Scott Wilson is author of over a dozen books on Japan and China.
How many cartoons have I seen in which a man climbs a craggy precipice in search of a wise religious figure? Why must sages dispense advice from the highest places? To put it more broadly, why do people think that one has to ascend to find religious purity? It must be related to the idea that God or the gods are in the heavens. Whereas the common person needs food from the earth and rivers, religious figures are sometimes thought to survive on air alone!
I mention this because 詣 means both “to visit a holy place” and “to attain an elevated state.” Could there be a thematic connection? No, not really. Kanjigen does say that the Japanese used to read 詣る as いたる (itaru), translating it as “to arrive at a high place.” (Nowadays that reading is archaic, and 至る (いたる/itaru) is the way to say “to arrive at” or “to reach.”) And quite a few holy places in Japan are indeed way up high. Purifying oneself involves hard work, and some people have ensured that that effort isn’t just spiritual but also physical! However, many shrines and temples are on flat ground.
Meanwhile, the latter definition has to do with attaining a very high stage of study or artistry. The keywords featuring 詣 in that sense involve “deep knowledge,” so in those cases we’re talking about going down, not up!
When I propose a connection between visiting a holy place and attaining an elevated state, I’m mainly doing so as a mnemonic for the two definitions.
A Blurry Boundary
One of my proofreaders told me that, strictly speaking, 詣 is only for visiting shrines, whereas 参 is for visiting temples. She says that when she sees 詣, she imagines a shrine.
However, she notes, many words that should use 詣 instead include 参. One example would be 参道 (さんどう/sandou), the term for the path leading to any shrine or temple. Similarly, a visit to Ise Shrine is known as 伊勢参り (いせまいり/Isemairi), in which 伊 is non-Joyo kanji.
This blurry boundary could be a product of the era in which Japanese temples and shrines were located on the same grounds. That’s before an 1868 law called for the two to be kept separate. The law is known as 神仏判然令 (しんぶつはんぜんれい/Shimbutsuhanzenrei) or 神仏分離令 (しんぶつぶんりれい/Shimbutsubunrirei).
But let’s return to the idea that 詣 is for shrines and that 参 is for temples. Another proofreader consulted various sources and concluded that there is no such official distinction between the two characters. Our star kanji can be about visits to Shinto shrines or Buddhist temples or even a visit to a grave, he said.
I believe him, but I have mentioned the first proofreader’s perceptions because I imagine that other Japanese people also associate 詣 with shrines.
By the way, 詣 applies only to pilgrimages within Japan. When speaking about how Muslim pilgrims go to Mecca, the Japanese instead use 巡礼 (じゅんれい/junrei), as in メッカ巡礼 (Mecca junrei). When referring to the pilgrimages that Buddhists make in countries such as India, Thailand, Cambodia, and so on, the Japanese are again likely to use 巡礼.
The Suffix -詣で
Let’s start our study of 詣 by considering this suffix:
-詣で (-もうで/-moude: visit to a holy place; pilgrimage)
The English word “pilgrimage” doesn’t have to be religious. It could mean “a journey or long search made for exalted or sentimental reasons.” Someone could also use it sarcastically. For instance, I might say that a woman addicted to shoe shopping made a “pilgrimage” to her favorite store.
The Japanese almost always use -詣で in religious contexts, but when they don’t, the usage is similarly sarcastic. For example, one article title called Prime Minister Abe’s first visit to the White House a ホワイトハウス詣で (Howaito Hausu–moude: a “White House pilgrimage”). With that usage the author was critiquing the prime minister for treating President Obama so reverently that it was as if Abe were visiting a shrine or seeing a god.
Similarly, another article title contained 北京詣で to condemn a Japanese politician for being overly warm toward China on a visit to Beijing (北京, read as ペキン/Pekin). Apparently, some English speakers call such people panda huggers! I had never heard that until my proofreader introduced the term.
Aside from sarcastic usage, the Japanese tack -詣で onto the names of religious places, as in this example:
彼は熊野詣でをした。
(Kare wa Kumano-moude o shita).
He made a pilgrimage to Kumano.
彼* (かれ/kare: he); 熊野 (くまの: Kumano)
Kumano Shrines
The name Kumano is short for the area on Honshu known as 熊野地方 (くまのちほう/Kumano chihou: Kumano region). Located on the southern part of the Kii Peninsula, the region includes parts of Mie, Wakayama, and Nara Prefectures. For ancient emperors’ families, that area was the most sacred in the country, and the region became a UNESCO-designated World Heritage Site in 2004.
A “Kumano shrine” is a type of Shinto shrine that enshrines the three Kumano mountains: Hongu, Shingu, and Nachi. In fact, of the three main shrines — Kumano Hongu Taisha, Kumano Hayatama Taisha, and Kumano Nachi Taisha — the first and third are named after the mountains. Hongu, the oldest shrine, is said to have been built in 33 BCE.
In Japan people make pilgrimages to more than 150 temples and shrines. Here are the top 3, according to a Japanese source listing the top 10:
1. Kumano
2. The Shikoku Pilgrimage
3. Ise Shrine
Kumano is first, so it’s most common to associate 詣 with Kumano shrines.
Given their religious importance, this is an established term:
熊野詣で (くまのもうで/Kumano-moude: pilgrimage to the three main Kumano shrines) Kumano (1st 2 kanji) + pilgrimage
That word lies at the heart of the sentence we just saw:
彼は熊野詣でをした。
He made a pilgrimage to Kumano.
Note that する/suru is the way to make that pilgrimage happen.
The Verb 詣でる
The suffix -詣で comes from this verb:
詣でる (もうでる/mouderu: to make a pilgrimage)
This is the Joyo kun-yomi of our star kanji. That should mean that 詣でる is a common word, but people don’t seem to use this verb often.
I’ll use it in this mnemonic, though: “Someone who makesa pilgrimage is a もうでる (model) citizen.”
The verb 詣でる came from まいず/maizu, a phonetic contraction of まいいず/maiizu (参出ず: to go see someone; visit).
On 詣 Versus 参
If 詣でる evolved from 参出ず, then 詣 and 参 have a relationship. That’s not hard to imagine because those kanji are interchangeable in various contexts. Take for instance this noun-and-verb pair, which introduce a non-Joyo kun-yomi for 詣:
-参り or -詣り (-まいり/-mairi: visit (to a holy place))
参る or 詣る (まいる/mairu: (1) to go; come; call; (2) be defeated; collapse; die; (3) be annoyed; be nonplussed; (4) be madly in love; (5) visit (a holy place))
Actually, the first keyword is primarily a suffix to nouns, though 参り and 詣り can also stand alone. When they do so, people usually add the prefix お-, as in this sentence:
先週末は、七五三のため神社へお詣りに行った。
(Senshuumatsu wa, Shichi-Go-San no tame jinja e o-mairi ni itta).
Last weekend we visited a shrine for the Shichi-Go-San ceremony.
先週末 (せんしゅうまつ/senshuumatsu: last weekend); 七五三 (しちごさん/Shichi-Go-San: name of a ceremony for children of certain ages); 神社* (じんじゃ: Shinto shrine); 行く (いく: to go)
The intransitive verb まいる introduces some complexity into our discussion:
• When it comes to the first definitions (“to go; come; call”) the Japanese render the verb only as 参る.
• For definitions 2 through 4 (“(2) be defeated; collapse; die; (3) be annoyed; be nonplussed; (4) be madly in love”) people use the hiragana まいる.
• We can use our star kanji only with definition 5 (“to visit (a holy place)”), rendering the verb as 詣る. However, even for that last meaning people commonly use 参る.
The Word 参詣
Thus far we have focused only on kun readings of 詣. Let’s shift to the Joyo on-yomi ケイ/kei, which pops up in this word:
参詣 (さんけい/sankei: (1) temple or shrine visit; pilgrimage; (2) visit to a noble person) visit (to a holy place) + visit (to a holy place)
The latter definition is archaic.
We’ve seen quite a bit about the close relationship between these two kanji, and here they are, bonded together in this term.
Taking 参詣 and adding する/suru forms a verb:
産土神社を参詣しました。 (Ubusunajinja o sankei shimashita).
I visited the shrine of the god of my birthplace.
産土 (うぶすな/ubusuna: birthplace)
「鉄道が変えた社寺参詣」
(Tetsudou ga kaeta shaji sankei) How Railroads Have Changed Pilgrimages to Shrines and Temples 鉄道* (てつどう/tetsudou: railroad); 変える (かえる/kaeru: to change);
社寺 (しゃじ/shaji: shrines and temples)
「初詣は鉄道とともに生まれ育った」
(Hatsumoude wa tetsudou totomoni umare sodatta) Being Born and Growing Up with Trains as a Way to Make the First Shrine Visit of the Year とともに/totomoni (together with); 生まれ育つ (うまれそだつ/umaresodatsu: to be born and to grow up)
Hey, the subtitle includes our star kanji in another term:
初詣で or 初詣 (はつもうで/hatsumoude: first visit of the new year to a holy place) 1st + visit to a holy place
The word 参詣 lies inside these spin-offs:
参詣者 (さんけいしゃ/sankeisha: visitor to a temple or shrine; pilgrim; worshiper) visit (to a holy place) + visit (to a holy place) + person
参詣人 (さんけいにん/sankeinin: visitor to a temple or shrine; pilgrim; worshiper) visit (to a holy place) + visit (to a holy place) + person
These words are completely synonymous. Apparently, 参詣者 is more common.
Remember our discussion of the Kumano shrines? Well, 参詣 lies inside a word closely related to them:
熊野参詣道 (くまのさんけいみち/Kumano sankei michi: pilgrimage route to the three main Kumano shrines) Kumano (1st 2 kanji) + pilgrimage (next 2 kanji) + route
To refer to the pilgrimage itself, simply chop off the last kanji:
熊野参詣 (くまのさんけい/Kumano sankei: pilgrimage to the three main Kumano shrines) Kumano (1st 2 kanji) + pilgrimage (last 2 kanji)
This term is less common than a synonym we already saw:
熊野詣で (くまのもうで/Kumano-moude: pilgrimage to the three main Kumano shrines) Kumano (1st 2 kanji) + pilgrimage
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We hope you enjoyed learning about 詣. But there’s more! This article has a more in-depth version, available by PDF for US $1.99 from the Joy o’ Kanji website.
The Wakasa Road is a historical trail that helped advance Japan’s culture and cuisine. The Wakasa region of Fukui Prefecture, on the nation’s west coast, was one of the strategic miketsukuni regions of Japan that produced food for the emperor in ancient times. Wakasa-mono were delectables from the Japan Sea such as fugu, karei flatfish and oysters transported via the Wakasa Road and its many arteries flowing into the heart of Kyoto. One particular branch gained popularity for bringing mackerel direct from the port in Obama by porters who carried 40-kilogram baskets on their backs, walking all night over mountain passes to deliver the goods to Kyoto before they spoiled. This route was nicknamed the Mackerel Trail, or Sabakaido (saba being mackerel).
This 72-kilometer fish route had been nibbling at my conscience for a while, and the fact that it’s not just a historic walking trail but also a culinary one piqued my stomach’s interest. It’s surprisingly easy to find someone to accompany you when gourmet food is involved. My friend Chris Thyregod was more than happy to take on the task.
The city of Obama has made the Mackerel Trail a major tool for tourism. The journey starts in Izumi-cho, in what is now a covered shopping street. There, the fish Sherpas filled their baskets with their piscine wares, heavily salted to preserve them for the long hike. It is said that the flavors were just right by the time the fish went to market in Kyoto.
If porters in ancient times could walk the Sabakaido in two days — in rope sandals, with full loads of fish on their backs — then Chris and I, with our latest Montbell duds, featherweight backpacks, hiking boots and voracious appetites, would have few troubles. Or so we thought.
Mention walking the Mackerel Trail to anyone working at the sundry information centers in Obama and they will smile and tell you the proud history of the Sabakaido. Ask for details about hiking the route, however, and they’ll squint at you, cock their heads to one side and start sucking air through their teeth. This is the telltale Japanese sign of utter perplexity.
The kind woman at the Obama train station information desk, for example, who is deft at renting out bicycles and finding overnight lodging for the woefully unprepared, hedged in this manner when we told her we were looking for information on the Mackerel Trail. She shooed us in the direction of the Machi no Eki (information center) in town.
An inquiry there made the woman at the information desk do the same while looking askance and searching the room for someone more knowledgeable. She even made some phone calls, but to no avail. In a final desperate attempt to give us some kind of guidance, she called in a bus driver off the street to see if he knew anything. He smiled, waved us on and wished us luck.
But at this point we didn’t care, because we had already started our own culinary version of the Sabakaido at the accompanying restaurant, swilling down cold beers while watching live mackerel get scooped out of the huge aquarium with a net. Minutes later, the poor darlings appeared as sashimi on our plates, served with sides of grated ginger, daikon radish and wasabi. For good measure, we also tucked into saba-zushi. Without even stepping onto the trail, we’d already arrived in saba heaven.
Finally, the woman urged us on to the michi no eki (highway rest stop), where she assured us they had special knowledge of the Sabakaido.
They didn’t. Lastly, we were motioned in the direction of the local library.
Each of these information gurus told us something different. Most hadn’t done the trail themselves but knew someone who had. Others tossed out random concerns under their breaths like “There may be landslides” or “The road isn’t paved all the way.” (Why do we need a paved road?)
We heard the local junior high school students had done the course in two days, camping overnight. (So, if kids can do it we can! Right?) One person said we could hike it in a day if we moved quickly while another, when asked about buses, looked doubtful, saying, “Yes, but they only run about once an hour.” (Um, isn’t that enough?) But most just smiled politely, handed us erroneous maps and wished us luck.
At the end of the day, we had amassed 13 different — mostly unrelated — maps and had spoken to dozens of people, none of whom could answer even our most basic questions about walking the Mackerel Trail.
There seemed to be plenty of information on driving the Wakasa Road, a highway with rest areas and petrol stations. But walking the Mackerel Trail? Why would tourists want to do that?
Undaunted, we chased down more beers, sorted through the unrelated maps and ultimately decided to just go for it the next morning.
That evening we slaked our thirst for adventure by taking part in more saba degustation — among all the maps, three were Obama restaurant maps — including heshiko (mackerel fermented in rice bran), nare-zushi (mackerel sushi salted and pickled in rice) and grilled mackerel.
The next morning, we were already five kilometers into our hike from Izumi-cho when we met someone who would alter our plans completely.
Just before the road went up into the mountains to the trail head, we stopped for coffee in a quasi-cafe/souvenir shop and information center. Full of optimism, we asked the middle-aged woman behind the counter if she had any advice on hiking the Sabakaido. As it turned out, she had done the trail three times herself!
But once we started asking questions about walking times, buses and where the nearest overnight accommodation was, she squinted at us, cocked her head to the side and started sucking air through her teeth. The ultimate blow was when she expressed concern that if we continued, we would be putting ourselves in grave danger. She even offered to drive us to a rental car agency.
The man at the rental car agency was just as bemused as marveled by two foreigners entering his small prefab office. He confided that he had never rented a car to foreigners before and, in that uniquely Japanese way, made us feel all the more honored for it.
With our new wheels, we experienced an unexpected wave of delight — something that previously felt forced upon us was now something we embraced, because now we could explore the Mackerel Trail with no concern for time limits, walking at night, losing our way or finding accommodations.
The road itself was lovely and lonely. Oftentimes just a single track, sometimes paved, other times not, it bumbled through the forest, meandered past wild monkeys, chased long, clear streams and rolled past sacred water gods. We even chanced upon the grave of a legendary 800-year-old woman who had — get this — eaten a mermaid!
We observed how the Sabakaido hiking path, like an uncoddled child, sallied in and out of the forest, hugging the car road for a few kilometers before ducking into the forest and back, darting out again, farther away this time, before reappearing in a self-determined pattern. More than a trail, it was a goat path: narrow, unforgiving and knee-deep in leaves. More untrodden than abandoned, it would swallow you whole in a dark forest lit by the sliver of a crescent moon.
No, the Mackerel Trail isn’t ready for hikers yet. It’s not exactly wilderness, since you’ll pass through tiny settlements of houses, but there will be no corner store, petrol station or place to curl up for the night. There is no infrastructure for walking pilgrims and the campgrounds are decrepit relics of an ’80s version of “glamping.” And it’s frigid at night, even in October.
We met only two cars and two motorcycles on the trail. We stopped by the roadside often, reveled in the accidental quiescence and envisioned porters crossing the Harihatatoge pass, hunched under 40-kg packs and a full moon.
Eager to cultivate a culinary trail, we went off-course to seek out restaurants and indulge in more local specialties: kodai no sasazuke (pickled sea bream) and hamayaki-saba (whole grilled mackerel on a stick). In truth, it took us all day just to drive the Sabakaido!
But, most importantly, I can say with confidence that we achieved our own version of mackerel enlightenment on this ancient Wakasa Road.
(This article originally appeared in The Japan Times in 2016. Hopefully, things have changed since then and the Mackerel Trail is more accessible to hikers).
Hiking and Trekking in the Japan Alps and Mount Fuji, (Cicerone, 2019) was published with two goals in mind: To fill in the vacuum left by two previous hiking guides that have gone out of print, and to offer a user-friendly guide.
“We wrote the book from two different angles,” explains Wes Lang, co-author with Tom Faye. “First, it’s a hiking and trekking guidebook for visitors to Japan. But, since both Tom and I live here, we wanted to write not just for tourists but also long-term residents: People who can already speak Japanese, who want really good maps and the most up-to-date transportation. So we included bilingual maps with kanji characters.”
Lang also reveals that signposts in the Japan Alps aren’t always rendered into English. But don’t worry; the descriptions in the book also include kanji.
While the book features full-color maps with contour information, Lang recommends hikers also purchase the waterproof “Yama to Kogen Chizu” (“Maps of Mountains and Plateaus”), issued by Shobunsha to use in conjunction with his guidebook. The Shobunsha map can be obtained from any Japanese bookstore or outdoors shop.
In this episode of the “Hon” podcast, host Amy Chavez talks with William Scott Wilson, author and translator of over a dozen books on Japan and China. They briefly discuss a few of these including, Hagakure: The Book of the Samurai (by Yamamoto Tsunetomo), The Book of 5 Rings (by Miyamoto Musashi), and Cultivating Ch’i: A Samurai Physician’s Teachings on the Way of Health (by Kaibara Ekiken) before they zero in on the writing of Walking the Kiso Road. In this episode the author reveals a surprising fact about himself that we never knew before! (hint: If you like to kayak, you’ll definitely want to check this out). Show Notes available by clicking “more” below but be warned, they include spoilers.
Of all the travelogues we present in this issue, this is the oldest account, a walk on the Tokaido over 200 years ago during the Tokugawa Period.
Book Description:
Shank’s Mare, originally published in Japanese as “Hizakurige” follows two amiable scoundrels, Yajirobei and Kitahachi, on a madcap journey of adventure and misadventure along the great Tokaido road leading from Tokyo to Kyoto, during their pilgrimage to Ise Shrine. The lusty tale of their disreputable doings is Japan’s most celebrated comic novel. Issued serially in 1802, Hizakurige was a tremendous success both with readers of its own time and with later generations. The book’s earthy humor typifies the brash and devil-may-care attitude of the residents of Tokyo, both then and now.
Books on Asia’s take:
We have the cloth-bound hardcover first edition of this book published by Charles E. Tuttle in 1960 (printed in Japan!). For book collectors, this edition is worth trying to procure because it has print plates of Hiroshige’s Fifty-three Stages of the Tokaido pasted into the book at the appropriate places! While the book is now out of print, the US Kindle version is only US$7.99, just 49 cents more than our first edition sold for over 50 years ago.
Price US $7.50 plus a book blurb from James Michener on the inside flap.
Print plates of Hiroshige’s Fifty-three Stages of the Tokaido pasted into the book.
This is the first guidebook to the Kumano Kodo. It’s great to finally have all the information in one place for easy reference. Although it is a guidebook, it’s light-weight! Also, if you’re planning on hiking the Kumano Kodo, don’t miss the article “Visiting Holy Places,” by Eve Kushner to find out some Japanese kanji you may want to know before heading out!
Print books available for pre-order via Amazon, to be released July 31, 2019. Available on Amazon Kindle in both US and Japan now.
Book Description:
Guidebook to Japan’s Kumano Kodo, a series of UNESCO-listed pilgrimage routes that crisscross the mountainous Kii peninsula, south of Osaka. Centred on three Shinto-Buddhist shrines known as the Kumano Sanzan, the ancient trails blend great hiking and exceptional natural beauty with a unique insight into Japan’s rich history, culture and spirituality. The guide covers the 64km Nakahechi and 63km Kohechi trails in full, as well as the Choishimichi route to Koyasan (20km), the Hongu loop (17km) and highlights of the Iseji trail. It can be used to plan and undertake an independent trek or to enrich an organised tour.
Clear route description and mapping is accompanied by comprehensive details of accommodation and facilities, as well as notes on local points of interest and inspirational colour photography. You’ll find a wealth of practical information to help with planning, covering transport, climate, accommodation, budgeting, equipment and safety, as well as fascinating background information on history, religion and wildlife. There is also a Japanese glossary and helpful advice on Japanese customs and etiquette.
The Kumano Kodo offers a different view of Japan: far removed from the modern cities, this is a world of forested slopes, hidden valleys, waterfalls, traditional villages, moss-covered stone deities and tranquil oji shrines. There are opportunities to experience hot-spring bathing and to sample local cuisine as you follow in the footsteps of emperors, samurai, priests and ascetics traversing traditional flagstone paths and forest trails.
To celebrate both the trails and those who travel them, the Kumano Kodo and Spain’s Camino de Santiago were twinned: if you complete both you can register as a ‘dual pilgrim’.
About the Author:
Kat Davis is also author of guidebook The Camino Portugues: From Lisbon and Porto to Santiago-Central, Coastal and Spiritual caminos, published by Cicerone.
