May 13th, 2019
Tokyo -> Magome
With a blink, a blur, and a stumble, I find myself in a dusty, open-air train station in Nakatsugawa. The ride was so remarkably smooth that it was unremarkable.
This is the start of the trip's next leg, where I begin hiking northward through the Kiso Valley. I am seeking the old mountain route between Kyoto and Tokyo: the Nakasendo Trail. Once a major walking highway, it is now fading beneath layers of concrete and development. I learned of its existence in the writings of the wandering haiku poet Matsuo Basho (1644-1694), and it is by following breadcrumbs left in his stories that I now find myself here with my own two feet.
But this is not Basho's era; much has changed in the years since he made footfalls on the trail. A local train line tunnels through the mountains where people once climbed over the passes. Roads crisscross the valley floors and planes give opportunity to bypass obstacles of the landscape altogether. Much of what was has disappeared.
And so I set off from the city towards the mountains, looking for remnants of a mostly forgotten trail. After several days steeped in the density of Tokyo, it is surreal to be out in the open. The weather is turbulent; a warm wind blows the cobwebs from my mind and rogue thunderclouds roam otherwise blue skies. Just like my route, I'm not quite sure what I'm to expect from those clouds.
Few people walk this stretch of trail each year, and so the signage I'm looking for is oft unmaintained or gone - or in Kanji, which I can't read. This isn't a "trail" that I'm used to; usually I am traversing dirt single track in the Canadian Rockies, looking for signs of bears. Here, I am on a rural road, looking for...signs. Of signs.
The wayfinding takes time and energy, both of which I am running low on. There is a bed in the town of Magome that has my name on it for tonight, but I need to check in before 8pm. Glancing at my watch for the umpteenth time today, I need to move quicker.
Finding help in this sleepy region has also proven to be less than fruitful. Inevitably I get lost on a few occasions, missing a turn on the maze of roads crisscrossing the countryside. But retracing my route time and again, I pick up on a pattern: the correct roadways always seem to have golden pebbles mixed in with the pavement - my very own yellow brick road!
The spirit of my footfalls brightens now that I have a proper bearing. At points I lose my yellow brick road and surprise a few farmers who didn’t expect me. But with a laugh and a wave, they encourage me back the way I came.
After a long afternoon of roadwalking through countryside sprawl, I come upon a sign at the edge of the pavement. It is the first sign I've encountered today with an English word on it, and it is but a single and heartening one: Nakasendo.
The trail branches away from where I came and up into the forest. Stepping into its cool shade, I am now on a path laden with old stones, worn smooth from the many feet that have moved over them. As if on cue, a jogger emerges from the entrance. He has headphones in and an absent-minded look on his face; that is, until he spots me laden with my large backpack. I chuckle to myself: I wouldn't have expected to see me here either.
Besides the lone jogger, the trail is quiet and I quicken my steps. Thunder continues to rumble threateningly in the distance, but so far the storm clouds have been nothing but bluster. A few cool drops find their way to me on the breeze; nothing like the soakings I've seen dropped in the valley at a distance.
After a bit of a climb, a rice paddy opens up before me. The sun is hidden behind yet another dark cloud, but its rays light up the shadowy profiles of mountains that stand sentinel on the horizon.
It is getting late and I exist in a quiet lull on the trail. But in the the mere space of a moment, as if signalled by a conductor hiding behind a tree, a symphony of frogs goes from zero to one hundred (listen to their polyrhythms and gaze over the hillside with an audio immersion I recorded).
Walk walk walk. This feels better; I quickly find a steady cadence. The setting sun peeks through the tall trees as I keep moving. Stone shrines line the way, covered with moss and secrets I cannot decipher. The climb does not cease and neither do I.
A haiku:
Speaking from the grave
Old words are resurrected
Behold: Basho lives
D