Ōminesan 大峰山, Peak of Gold 金峯山 (May 1–4)

Several seasons have passed since last I visited Ōminesan. Returning to a place. A place that exists outside of Facebook, emails, and even phone calls at times. You know and you care, so you just show up. This was my sixth visit in about a year. My perspectives and indeed my person have changed much since that first visit. I knew no one then but was drawn to come since first I saw the name – this I am well used to by now as my life and adventures in the big world progress.  Here I am again, new and old, same and different. Settling into ‘my room’ at the inn, greeting the family, drinking tea. Go over my rough plan for the next few days with Kino-san, the innkeeper. He worries about me when I go into the mountains, or anywhere really, so I have to make sure he approves of what I have in mind. First stop is the gate marking the climbing entrance from which women are prohibited, and then the glorious hike along the heavenly river (literally, Tenkawa 天川) to the caves, past the teahouses, and back through town. I love this loop. But it’s too late in the day already, Kino-san objects. He hops on his bike and zips into an alley, soon reemerging in his car to drive me to the gate.

The next morning. After the best breakfast of my life (every meal here is the best meal of my life), I am ready to hike Inamuragatake, 1725.9m tall peak sometimes called “Women’s Ōmine” because it sits next to the one we ladies are banned from. Kino-san (already worried that I am hiking alone and what time would I be back and do I have water, tea, a bento?) graciously drives me to the climbing entrance. The trail starts at the Mother’s Hall, the original boundary line for women. A cozy shrine nestled into the hills and tended to by two local townsmen who I have come to know quite well. I immediately saw the familiar (enlightened?) face of Taniguchi-san and the more elderly gentleman who paints characters on newspapers perched in front of the temple’s icons and has such a sparkle in his eye and grin that despite a beautifully thick accent I somehow understand. The climb was beautiful, and tough, and truly forest therapy at its best. I missed my tree friends, their mossy children, and the great ridges and vistas they support.

Descending, I again visited the gentlemen of the Mother’s Hall. Now they were joined by a group of men’s men who had just finished climbing the peak off-limits to me. They invited me to join them, but I was feeling shy. I sat close but not in the thick of the group. She is a Kyudai professor, Taniguchi-san tells the men, who seem outright shocked, but in a nice way. I have not once experienced anything less than total kindness in these mountains.

We sipped coffee and ate sweets. I gorged myself on delicious spring water that flowed out of a steel dragon’s mouth. Taniguchi-san speaks with such calm interest and knowledge that I am now convinced of his humble enlightenment. He knows when I may not understand something, and makes the effort to explain it differently. He calls another town elder and makes arrangements for me to visit him on his veranda to talk about 10^th century Chinese texts that talk about many temples on the top of this distant “peak of gold” (the former name of Ōminesan). With “directions” and a name – Toritani-san – I am sent off to the village to find him. Giggled to myself the entire 2km walk back to town about it all – “there is a tall foreign scholar – yes, she speaks Japanese very well – yes, she is actually interested in the old history of the mountain – okay, on your porch – sending her now.” Between the different inn names and surely my exhaustion and now-developing sunburn from the hike, I somehow could not locate this veranda when I returned.

 Let me back up slightly. Giggling walk back: through the winding tall trees, I happen upon another of my mountain buddhas among men. Yamashita-san I met last September, when he was 92 and wearing a baseball cap sending me off to climb up a steep hill to a cave where I participated in an esoteric ritual simulating rebirth that involved complete blackness, foreboding empty spaces said to once be occupied by a jealous angry female serpent (!). Alas, he can no longer make the trek so he sent us off and waited at the bottom. I realized as that day passed that he holds a very significant role in this religious community, his name is carved in the massive wooden pillars framing an ornate hall dedicated to the four million year old god Maōgongen. (yes, four million, and the cave at the beginning of it all was this god’s abode and was at the bottom of the ocean…). Yamashita-san insisted I join him at lunch. I awkwardly crouched next to him, literally twice his size, and we ate miso soup and rice as he shared stories of his experience in WWII at Luvalle and how after surviving such a horrific war turning to the mountains to find relief. There are a hundred more details of this day last September I keep safe in my memory, but here we are again some eight months later. He is now 93, somehow looking even younger and more radiant. Is he the real Benjamin Button? My heart brightened to reconnect with him.

Further down, stopping to check in at my inn and let them know all went well and not to worry, I continued down the main street keeping an eye out for this Toritani-san sitting on a veranda waiting to regale me with stories! Alas, I did not see one. Naturally, I continued to the end of the town to the gas station where Masutani-san lives. We met last May, his 83^rd year. A former mountain guide, expert mechanic, storyteller par excellence, and family man – walking into the station and seeing his daughter I was overcome with feelings of nostalgia and home (my father was also a mechanic). Was he well, I wondered? I nervously started to ask, having such sweet memories of our many hours together during interviews and adventures last summer but no contact since last visit. Before I could even articulate words her face brightened and she looked over to the house. Dressed in nice slacks and a button up shirt, Masutani-san peeked out of the house and when he saw me let a surprised “Ah—.” We sat in his office and drank cold vitamin c drinks he rustled up from somewhere for the next several hours. “No, she does not drink coffee” he reminded his daughter. His memory of small details is exquisite and charming. Speaking of small details, Masutani-san has a small animal pelt on the table with a few tools. He is wearing a single glove on his right hand – I caught him mid-mending a pelt/pouch that mountain ascetics string from their waist to store important essentials in (like tobacco, he explained). I sat on a purple workout bench – he explained it was so he could stretch his back and keep flexible. We poured over maps from his treasured books (which share shelves with mechanic manuals – what could be more adorable and perfect!), I scribbled notes, he reminisced of events in his life and those from 1300 years ago – they are real he says and who am I not to believe him. This place, this mountain, is his life. Tears well up in my eyes just recalling the look in his wise gaze.

This place, this mountain, and this life is such a gift, and with great gifts come great responsibilities. These Mountain Men mean a great deal to me. I am grateful and honored to be able to share space and time with them. I will hold their stories and sentiments close and share with others.

Writing from my room now. The sound of bubbling spring water and clicks of geta (wooden sandals) fill the thoroughfare outside my window. Couples and small groups stroll up and down, donning yukata from their ryokan. The voices of children and slightly inebriated men chime in as well. Goodnight.