Shinkyo, the sacred bridge over Daiyugawa in NikkoI got off the train and instantly noticed how clear and delicious the fresh mountain air was. I gulped it in eagerly and set off to find the hostel I would stay at for the two nights. It was a tiny Japanese-style place. From the booking site online I’d gathered it was run by a friendly married couple; I thought they sounded nice for a lone traveler. Perhaps because Nikko is a small inaka (countryside) town I expected an older couple, and was surprised when I opened the door to find that the go-shujin (husband) lounging in a kotatsu seemed barely thirty. His hair and the frames of his glasses both were thick and black, and he wore a ski-cap and a flannel jacket with a cammo print, the sort of things my brothers might wear in the winter. How different Nikko fashion was from the city! “Oh hey, Leah-san! It is Leah, isn’t it?” he called. He offered me tea and then showed me my room—or bed, rather. It was a bunk in a room with two bunk-beds. “Are you sure a mixed dorm is ok? There are actually three boys and you in here tonight…” I was a little dismayed, actually. I’d stayed in a mixed dorm hostel before, but then each bed was like a capsule, with a solid door one could shut and lock for some privacy. “This other room is empty tonight; why don’t you sleep there for now? It’s our best room too,” and he plopped my futon down in a lovely 8-mat tatami room with a carved ceiling. “Is it really alright? Thank you!” I laid out my futon and rested for a bit. It would be my first time sleeping on tatami. I went downstairs after a bit to the common room to find Satou-san’s wife had appeared; she was very cute and offered me a place next to her in the kotatsu. It was my first time sitting in one, and boy, was it lovely! That evening I met two American boys who were staying at the hostel; one was from Rikkyo University and was good friends with Lucian, my fellow Japanese major! Satou-san generously drove us to an illumination festival in the snow along the river. The prettiest thing to me was the glow of the almost-full moon on the snow and the myriad of stars, with the rush and rumble of the river, invisible in the darkness, from the gorge below. Afterwards Kumiko-san, Mrs. Satou, drove me to the supermarket to get a bento for dinner. They were all sold out already. “Well, we can go to 7/11 and get one,” she said smiling, but I insisted instant ramen was fine and bought that. On seeing the couple interact I had sensed if not exactly spousal discord at least a difference in personalities between them. Yudai Satou had lived abroad, was outgoing and warm, eager to hang out with guests and admittedly rather more friendly towards young female ones, while Kumiko-san was more reserved, and seemed to go about caring for guests according to her husband’s friendly policies not because she wanted to but because she had to. So I made do with ramen and was careful during dinner in the common room to address Satou-san in distant, polite Japanese. This seemed to make Kumiko-san a little friendlier to me, and when he went out later she and I enjoyed an hour or so of pleasant female chatter before bed. I thought grimly if I know anything about Japanese men, it must be a bit worrisome for her to live in a small house where so many young people (girls of course among them) came and went.
The next morning I got up early and stepped out of the hostel. I gasped wide-eyed at the view of the mountains behind the station that I hadn’t seen in the dark last night. Then I set off for what turned out to be a magical, but weary day of trudging through snow and shrines and silent cedar forests. It was beautiful and restorative. I also made a new friend: a tiny cinnamon-colored stray cat. She came running out of under a temple building mewing at me, and when I crouched down to her she jumped very friendly right into my lap, and gave me a kitty-hug by putting muddy little paws up to my neck. She climbed into my arms and nibbled my fingers, purring heartily. I tried to set her down but she wouldn’t have it; I felt silly carrying a cat around though and reluctantly forced her down. She tried to follow me, but I hissed a little at her, and then she sat looking forlornly at me and mewing until I was out of sight.
There is a famous part of the carvings in Tosho-gu of a sleeping cat; I shelled out 300 yen to see it, but couldn’t get the little stray out of my head. I found a trail from the shrine and hiked over the mountain—that was lovely but exhausting. I found a waterfall and tiny hidden shrines, and reveled in the thin mountain air and the silence broken only by the wind in the cedars. I was alone, but I always feel I'm in the presence of a friend at such times. When I came down from the mountain at last I looked around for the little cat, but this time I found her enjoying the attentions of a large yellow tomcat, who wasted no time in grabbing her scruff in his teeth and swinging himself on top of her. A Japanese man walking by noticed them too and pointed and laughed, but I hurried away embarrassed, not surprised now by how friendly the little cat had been. It was that time of year, I supposed.
I went back into town for lunch at a little place that advertised yuba-udon. Yuba is a specialty of Nikko but I’m still not exactly sure what it is. It seems to be a by-product of the soymilk-making process, but it was delicious. I was the only customer, so I sat at the bar stools in order to talk to the owner, an old man with a toothless grin. I often have a hard time understanding older folks’ Japanese and they seem to have a hard time understanding mine, but we got along. I asked him what his favorite season in Nikko was. “Tashika ni” (certainly) Nikko is famous for the fall leaves. This shop gets really crowded then. But my favorite is early spring, when there is new green on the hills. You should come again then, or stay longer,” he said chuckling. When he learned I was living in Kyoto, he asked if I liked matcha, and then brewed a cup of it for me! Along with a traditional Nikko sweet, mizu-yokan, which is a kind of jelly made from sweet red beans. This he refused to accept payment for.
Though I was so worn out I felt a little dizzy the food revived me and I decided to use the remaining daylight, which fades quickly when the sun sinks behind the mountains, to walk along the Daiyu River. I knew the Taisho Emperor when he came here to retreat from the hot Tokyo summer loved the river, and wrote a poem about it which is apparently inscribed on a rock somewhere near the river, but I never found the rock. It was very beautiful river anyway, clear as light in the shallows and deep turquoise in the pools, with a good balance between flat stretches and picturesque torrents leaping between piles of rounded boulders. I wanted to visit the Imperial estate, which is open to the public and famous for blending traditional Japanese styles with Western ones Taisho was so fond of, but simply did not have time. There was another house I wanted to visit, the Kanaya residence, which is an old samurai’s mansion. Locals call it the “ninja mansion” thanks to several architectural tricks that make attack difficult, such as low ceilings designed to prevent the drawing of a sword indoors. In the 19th century, James Curtis Hepburn, famous for developing the Hepburn system of romanizing Japanese, visited Nikko and found no place to stay, but the samurai Kanaya Zenemon offered Hepburn his house. As the story goes Kanaya seemed to enjoy hosting a foreigner, and in later years when Hepburn suggested he open the house as an inn for foreign visitors Kanaya did just that. Today the Kanaya Hotel in Nikko is in a different building than the original Japanese mansion, but has the prestige of being able to declare itself the oldest hotel in Nikko. It would seem the warm-hearted Nikko acceptance of outsiders come to rest or explore their little town goes back many years.
That evening Satou-san told me about a pass I could pick up at the tourist desk in the station which would give me free entry into an onsen (natural hotspring bath) at a fancy hotel in Kinugawa, a 30-minute train ride away. We figured out though I would be too late to pick up the pass from the office, which would close soon. Satou-san called his wife and some friends who worked at different onsen, but couldn't find anywhere else so nice for free. “It's alright, really,” I said, “Because tomorrow I'm going to Yumoto-onsen.” I’d quickly gathered that Kinugawa was a very touristy place, sporting several theme-parks and resort hotels, where all the foreigners and rich young Tokyo couples go. Yumoto on the other hand is a tiny town made up of 15 or so tiny ryokan, Japanese inns, in the heart of the mountains, two hours away by bus, built right on top of the volcanic marsh where the hotsprings bubble out of the ground, a soaking-place for Nikko old folks and a base-camp for serious skiers. Nikko in general lives off tourism, but Yumoto seemed to cater a little less to the shallow sorts of tourists. Satou-san agreed. “Yumoto instead of Kinugawa, huh. You sure looked it up thoroughly! Make sure you go to the onsen closest to the springs. It’ll be really hot though I think!”
That evening four more guests came, German girls visiting their friend Juliane who was studying at Keio University in Tokyo. They were very friendly and when they saw I was alone they invited me out to dinner with them! We went to a kind of touristy Indian restaurant where most everything was in English; being invited I kept my mouth shut about suggesting local fare—and then I learned one of the girls was vegetarian and agreed a traditional Japanese restaurant probably wouldn’t have many options anyway. The place was run by real Indian people though and the curry was very delicious, and the conversation very entertaining. Living with two Germans in my dorm I’ve gotten used to their pert, direct style and dry sense of humor—if Americans are notorious for talking straight I think Germans deserve the reputation even more! I spent the dinner laughing merrily at their banter. One of the girls, Julia, wanted to go to an onsen that night, so Satou-san drove us to one and we had a wonderful chat while soaking in the hot water, talking about school and plans for the future (we both are considering going into government) and exchanging recommendations for books (we both like classical literature). I learned later in the evening that the girls were planning a trip to Kyoto the next week—I offered to meet them and show them around for a day or two! They were very enthusiastic and I was glad to have met, even if for only a short time, a kindred spirit in Julia. Juliane and I stayed up late exchanging stories of study abroad. She had arrived at Keio the same month I had come to Doshisha, and was also staying for a year. “Once I accidentally went to a host-club,” she said, me smiling in the darkness at her English, “But it was so weird to pay for flirting. I asked one boy “Do you have plans for your future?” but he just kept playing with my hair and saying I am so pretty. What a joke!” I tried not to laugh too loud. I could just see the practically-minded Juliane ruining the mood by asking the host about his future. “It is sad,” I said when the giggles subsided, “I suppose their livers are all ruined from drinking all night every day.” “Yeah, and they can't be hosts forever, either,” said Juliane, “Eventually they get old and minikui (ugly: literally, ‘hard to look at’). Then I guess they turn into the ojisans who clean toilets in train stations.” We sighed heavily at the terrible fate of the beautiful host boys, and, half-asleep now, giggled nonsensically a bit more, and at last got some sleep as rain drummed outside.
In the morning I got up early to set off for Yumoto. The bus ride was breath-taking, especially the morning brilliance reflected in the white snow and powder blue of Lake Chuzenji. The bus climbed up Iroha-zaka, the road up the mountain that in which each switchback is designated by a letter of the old Japanese alphabet. The views were dizzying. Then came the Senjogahara Plain, in winter a white expanse dotted with elegant birch trees. At one point the bus stopped at a hiking trailhead to a waterfall. Most of the 20-odd old folks on the bus got off there, helping each other toddle off the slippery sidewalks onto the trail, each decked out in hiking boots and canvas garters and hiking staffs. They were so cute, and I thought how amazing Japanese old people are sometimes. I couldn’t imagine someone my grandmother’s age going off hiking, but the Japanese seem genki (healthy, energetic) enough for it somehow. At last the bus arrived at its last stop in Yumoto. It was deep in snow, with the plowed piles at the sides of the road reaching almost double a man’s height. The sky was a brilliant blue and the strong wind roaring in the pines seemed as loud as jet engines. It was very empty at midday and the first onsen I entered I had to myself. My favorite are the outdoor baths; this one was against a snowy hillside and the bitter wind flowing under the black pines blew tiny ice crystals across my bare shoulders. The indoor bath was almost too hot for me to enter, my skin turned lobster red in only a few seconds. The next onsen I tried was the one directly on the sulfur marsh, the first onsen to receive the mineral water, naturally heated to a just bearable temperature, piped only a few hundred meters from where it bubbled up from the ground. I lingered in that onsen for almost two hours, since the outdoor bath had a nice view over the marshes and a ledge for sitting on when I got too hot in the water. I watched a hawk wheeling in the sky for a long time. A young woman got into the bath too presently, and I talked to her, “Kimochi ii desu ne,” (Feels good, doesn’t it?) simply because I feel awkward being in close quarters with someone stark naked and not talking at least a little. She replied looking pleasantly surprised. “Nihon de osumai desu ka?” Again, I was asked if I were a resident in Japan! To be asked this question twice in such a short time was very nice. Maybe my spoken Japanese really is improving!
I dragged myself out of the onsen at last, and, feeling very clean and limp and warm after two onsen now, returned to Lake Chuzenji for lunch, and then set off to find Kegon-taki, the beautiful falls that drop from the lake basin. Giant icicles hung around it and a wind echoing in the basin blew up ice crystals and last fall’s leaves. Everything glittered. I’d read of how a 17-year-old boy had, many years ago, thrown himself from the falls after carving a very long but moving poem in a tree near the edge of the falls. Some author used the incident in a novel and before long the spot became famous for young suicides. I don’t know if it still has that reputation, but either way I saw no literature about suicide prevention or counseling, just stands of stuffed monkeys (there are evidently wild monkeys in Nikko. I was very glad I didn’t meet a single one. I think they’re very scary!) and keychains and fried yuba. Oh well. I suppose Japanese are much more private about emotional problems than Americans, who like to talk about theirs. I admired the falls one last time and then turned my back for the hostel. I would just pack up my things and take the evening train for Tokyo to catch my overnight bus back to Kyoto. The time in Nikko had been entirely too short. I got “home” to the hostel and let Satou-san set me down with tea when I really wanted to be running. I’m always a bit nervous about mistaking the noriba (platform) or something and so I like to arrive early for trains like this that run only once every few hours. But as I sipped the tea I felt my body, sinking comfortably in the chair, was getting very heavy. I wanted so dreadfully to stay. The merry German girls had gone already and I would meet them in Kyoto, but the Satous, the little cat at Toshogu, the places I had wanted to see but didn’t have time for, the morning view of the mountains…I would miss it all so much. I thought wildly of canceling the overnight bus and staying a few more nights, but no…in fees and the loss of my 4-day train pass it would cost double than if I had planned to stay longer from the beginning, and I hadn’t brought so much cash. Satou-san appealed to me one last time. “Do you really have to go so soon? Won’t you come tonight to a full-moon party?” I wished he hadn’t invited me. It made me sadder to leave. “I’m sorry,” I said, “I really have to catch that bus. But is tonight a full moon?”
Before I left we took a picture together in front of the hostel. I’d wished Kumiko-san was there but Satou-san said she’d gone across town and wouldn’t be back in time for me to catch the train. He couldn’t put his arm around me because of my bulging backpack, but he tucked himself in close for the photo and used the opportunity to give me a squeeze. He laughed at the photo. “We look like koibito, lovers” “Which we are not,” I said, glad a bit of revulsion found its way into my voice, embarrassed to think he probably wouldn’t have gotten away with it had Kumiko-san been there, and shocked at how fond of him I was myself. “Come again sometime,” he said, and instead of “sayonara” we said, jaa mata, “see you later.” Then I hurried off for the train. When I had the leisure to sit quietly in my seat as the train pulled away, a few tears started swimming in my eyes. I had found a paradise, a quiet, pristine haven that I hardly had the time to look at even, and had met quite unexpectedly some very kind people I might not ever meet again. For the first time I was returning to Kyoto reluctantly. I had a found a new place in Japan I could love. I thought of the Satous and how running a hostel in Nikko would be just about the best job ever—living in such a beautiful place and being able to meet so many interesting people from all over the world. But of course the hard thing is no one stays long. I sniffed, realizing for the first time that I still smelled strongly of sulfur from the onsen, and sadly ate the sembei crackers Satou-san had given me as a farewell present. The group of old ladies across from me opened beers and Pocky and were soon as noisy and chattery as any group of highschoolers. I looked glumly out the window as the full moon rose, huge and round and golden as a 500 yen coin in the purple sky. I was already thinking of when I might have a long enough break to come back—May? I could see the “new green” that old man in the yuba shop had mentioned. End of June? Senjogahara would be waist-deep in wildflowers. But oh dear, there were still so many other places in Japan I wanted to see, it seemed somehow sad to use a precious break time to come back again to someplace I’d already been to. We will see!
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