"A Walk Between Worlds" by Chris Gladden
A sample of the story from Forty Stories of Japan | see PDF
As the rickety bus clambers up from the valley town of
Kisofukishima, I sip a hot can of Boss coffee and watch the
patchwork hills of bamboo and sugi pine lurch by. We are ascending
through a narrow ravine towards Ontake-san, on the border of Nagano
and Gifu Prefectures, right in the middle of Honshu, Japan’s main island.
The lumbering bulk of the mountain looms, shrouded in early morning
mist. My natural inclination when climbing is to want to see where I am
heading, but at times like this I can only suspend the inquisitive faculty
and plunge into the fog with faith that boots and the power of breakfast
will carry me through. This particular mountain could well have her own
designs though. Ontake is even today considered a god.
The Japanese have always thought of their rugged islands as alive. Oddly
placed boulders, ancient ragged trees, ridge lines, glades, hilltops and
bodies of water are all the domain of kami, powers that humans can relate
to for boons and blessings ... or neglect at their own risk. Some of these
objects are themselves deities, others inhabited by one, or more gods. The
boundary between these is rarely sharply defined, the sacred and profane
in Japan always a matter of emphasis rather than a line in the sand. Of
course the features that dominate the natural landscape are also paid
homage.
You can hardly take a step in Japan without walking into a mountain. They
soar and dive virtually the entire length of the country and are commonly
represented in place and family names: Yamada (山田、mountain rice
field), Yamaoka (山岡、mountains and hills), and Takayama (高山、high
140 g Forty Stories of Japan
mountain) are just a few of thousands. Like many peoples, the ancient
Japanese revered alpine realms as the meeting points of heaven and
earth. Certain peaks, however, were considered particularly numinous.
The mountain cults that developed in relation to them have always
been important repositories of local Shinto and later esoteric Buddhist
practice.
There are dozens of these sacred peaks all over the country but Ontake is in
a realm of her own. For millennia the mountain’s spirit has been welcomed
to the rice fields in spring and returned to the heights in autumn with great
celebration. As watershed source she is the giver of life, as well as the great
womb to which believers return when they die. She is for many a gateway,
an underworld realm, and a kami of multiple aspects all in one. As if there
was any doubt about the mountain’s relation to the beyond, along the road
snaking up to the trailhead, rough stone stelas rise scattered across the
hillsides, weather-worn and mossy, like headstones growing wild. At last I
step off the bus into clear woodland air, a balm after an hour of diesel roar.
A quick look at the map, then I start up through the woods, the rocky trail
winding shady through pine, cedar, mossy birch and a rolling understory
of knee-high bamboo. It’s cooler than down in the valley. After just a
short climb the fog begins to give way. The ascent is appropriately slow.
Traditionally, you don’t go charging up a mountain. You can’t because
you have to keep stopping along the way to show obeisance to the sacred.
Shortly I arrive at a shrine hanging precariously from the cliff face, its
pure white banners streaming out over the valley. As is typical of Japanese
deities, Ontake is not the jealous type. She certainly doesn’t mind sharing
some space with the rest of the homegrown Shinto crowd; shrines and
gods of stone and brass cover her rugged body like scattered jewels. The
languid pace and frequent pauses have the further benefit of providing
settled moments to reflect on what’s before you, rather than letting your
mind swirl about the peaks. Personally I feel rushing anywhere only
guarantees you’ll reach your ultimate destination a little sooner. Racing up
a mountain so closely associated with death seems particularly bad form...