Shinkyo-bashi (aka that famous bridge in Nikko)
In the year 766, a Buddhist priest named Shodo Shonin walked to Nikko and founded Rinnoji Temple. Last week, I caught a train to Nikko and camped illegally at Karikomi Lake. I guess we both sought peace, and a place to worship nature in a spectacular mountain setting. (And I didn't see the 'No Camping' sign until I was hiking out. . . in the snow.)
Following the establishment of Nikko as a spiritual center, the village grew and subsequent temples were built in the area, culminating in the ornately decorated Toshugu Shrine. Ieyasu, first of the Tokugawa shoguns (who would rule Japan for 250 years), ordered Toshogu, his shrine and mausoleum, to be built in Nikko, adjacent to Rinnoji Temple. Construction began on Toshugu in 1617, and today the entire collection of religious buildings spanning centuries and faiths has been designated a UNESCO World Heritage Site. As in the rest of Japan, most of the temples and shrines combine elements of both Shinto (Japan's indigenous faith) and Buddhism. Shinto is rooted in a reverence for the natural world and the veneration of kami, spirits representing anything from mountains to rivers to trees. Buddhism came to Japan in the 6th century, and the two religions have more or less coexisted ever since. This is obviously simplifying things, but Buddhism being for many people as much a way of life as a rigid religion no doubt has something to do with it.
Nikko generally refers not only to the town and temple complex, but the surrounding mountains, lakes and high plateaus which make up Nikko National Park. It's this combination of magnificent religious architecture, mountain scenery and hot spring resorts that make Nikko such a popular and destination.
Autumn colors in Nikko
Entrance to Toshogu Shrine
I started my adventure in Nikko by strolling through the temples, weaving in and out of Japanese schoolkids while hearing awe expressed in half a dozen languages. I had visited Nikko six years ago, but the moss-covered stone walkways, ancient cypress trees and impossibly ornate temple buildings were just as magical as the first time I saw them. Within the Toshogu grounds, I paused to admire the carved panel depicting the three wise monkeys. Representing the proverb 'Hear no evil, speak no evil, see no evil', they vie with the temple itself in terms of popularity with photographers.
The three wise monkeys
Ema (wooden prayer blocks) hanging at Toshugu
After checking out the temples, I hustled back down to the train station to collect my bag and catch a bus up to Yumoto Onsen. From Nikko, a well-developed (and well-marketed) tourist trail heads to up a steep slope past Kegon Falls to Chuzenji Lake, an area whose natural beauty inspired early pilgrims, including Shodo Shonin himself. The venerable priest climbed nearby Nantai-san and built a shrine on the lake shore. Today's travellers walk around the town of Chuzenji Onsen, taking pictures, eating ice cream and perhaps spending the night to soak in the hot springs or take a hike. I stayed on the bus as the road continued up, past the Senjo-ga-hara wetlands to Yumoto Onsen. The road is closed in winter beyond this small hot springs village on Lake Yunoko. Far from the hustle of Nikko, there was hardly a soul around when I got off the bus on a gusty Autumn afternoon. I came for the hiking trails that head into the mountains, seemingly a month late. The skies were gray and a cold November wind sent the fallen leaves skittering down the street. The campground was closed and the place had a deserted feel. I pulled out a map and looked up. I only had two hours of daylight left before a long cold night. I tried to project confidence and nonchalance as I ate a Snickers under the gaze of two smoking bus drivers.
I had everything I needed in my pack - tent, sleeping bag and pad, stove, warm clothes, Starbucks instant coffee, a water filter and chili powder. I started out of town and into the teeth of a chilly breeze. I headed for Karikomi Lake, the only place I saw on the map where I could get water and reach before dark. The trail from Yumoto Onsen led out the back of town, past the reeking, bubbling springs that give the town its name. Each sulphurous spring was sheltered under a small wooden roof and piped to one of the handful of hotels providing an onsen (hot spring bath.)
I climbed a steep set of stairs and crossed a road. I hiked up a valley through cedar, cypress and hemlock. I started to relax and enjoy the silence. Until I heard an eerie, high-pitched squeal from very close by. In the silent autumn woods this is a very unsettling sound. It reminded me of the bugling of elk I'd heard in the North American West. It turns out the much smaller Sika deer, resident in much of forested Japan, possesses a voice many times bigger than its body (during the fall rut.) Later, lying in my tent at the lake, I listened to a local buck calling to his harem all night long.
Karikomi Lake, a little more than and hour from Yumoto Onsen, is small but pretty. Steep, forested slopes frame a narrow lake with a beach at the western end. I pitched my tent out of sight and away from the water. I made a coffee and enjoyed the sunset. After briefly investigating the wealth of deer sign around the lake, the cold and wind drove me into my tent. I read Marco Polo's The Travels for a while, but it's a pretty boring book and before long I made dinner. Falling into the primitive habits of sleeping out-of-doors, I was asleep by 9 o'clock, but woke to pee around midnight. The nearly-full moon cast long shadows and the stars put on a show in the clear, cold sky. Somewhere nearby in the darkness, a Sika buck squealed loudly at the sound of my pissing - out of rage or approval, I couldn't tell which.
Sometime in the early morning hours, I woke again to the sound of snow pelting my flimsy tent. I fought off simultaneous urges to laugh and cry instead burying my head in my sleeping bag. Snow had not been forecast. There was no snow on the ground. It hadn't snowed yet this year, not even once. But whenever I camp n the fall, it snows. This has happened to me many times and it may be some kind of weird curse. I show up somewhere, a natural, beautiful place absent of snow, and overnight it snows. This has happened to me four times in the past year alone: last November in the Gila Wilderness in New Mexico, when I went to bed on a golden blanket of pine needles and woke to two inches of snow; a few weeks later on the Long Trail in Vermont, testing a new sleeping bag at Battell Shelter; and scarcely two months ago in Denali, when I fell asleep counting Dall sheep on the autumn tundra and woke to fat, drifting flakes. It's weird.
I did what I always do when I wake up in a tent in a snow storm: I made coffee. The major difference this time was the existence of hot springs less than two hours away. After breakfast and another coffee, I packed up and hiked out to Yumoto Onsen. The trail held a new allure, lined by cedars drooping under fresh snow with golden beeches, always the last to give up their leaves, lighting the way. I ducked into the first onsen I came to in town. I held a short, to-the-point sign language conversation with a broom-wielding old lady, paid 700 yen and found my way into the men's changing room.
A quick note regarding onsen in Japan: since everyone's naked, the sexes don't really mix. (Periscope=inappropriate!) There are always separate male and female baths. There was no one else there when I showed up, so I took the opportunity to snap a few photos of the indoor and outdoor pools: beautiful, natural hot spring water opaque as green sea glass and very hot. I stripped, sat on a little stool and made a great production of soaping, sudsing and washing before entering the bath itself. Sitting in the outdoor pool up to my neck in hot water, feeling the cold wind on my face as snowflakes drifted down, listening to the rattling reeds and looking at the mountains. That's life.
Indoors and out at Yumoto Onsen
I had planned on spending another night or two in the mountains, except I couldn't see them anymore. Standing post-bath in the streets of Yumoto, I could barley make out some of the lower ridges, almost two thousand feet above town. Snow and clouds obscured the peaks I would have to cross to reach the shelter I hoped to sleep in. I didn't have to think too hard before I abandoned the mountains and started hiking across the marshes toward Nikko. It would have been stupid and unsafe to go up there in a snow storm, and besides, I could go another day. The first rule of mountain travel is to respect the mountains.
Senjo-ga-hara
I hiked south across the Senjo-ga-hara Plateau, along the Yu-gawa River and through a marsh turned to gold by the approach of winter. The bare white trunks of birch stood starkly against the dry, russet grasses and faded, brown mountainsides. A hawk circled a few times overhead before soaring over a nearby ridge. Everywhere, the land seemed to be holding its breath, waiting for winter. I hiked across the marsh on a boardwalk, passing few hikers, and down to a bus stop on the road. I was sorry to be headed back into Tokyo, but grateful for the time I'd spent in Nikko. Besides, I'll probably be back. . .
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