There is something wonderful about walking low passes in Japan. You follow a long valley out to its farthest reaches, and after the up and over, you enter a new landscape, with another broad valley opening before you. This next section is through a quiet village, stretched high above the river which wends slowly below.
I pass plenty of ruins: a temple founded by Shotoku Taishi; an old feudal school; a tea house which previously sold famous steamed buns. There are also the open grounds of a modest temple complex, a sake brewer, then a long walk down an arrow-straight road lined with cozy looking homes. At the far end is Tochihara, known to walkers for its Edō period inn that marks the first overnight for those who’d started at Ise proper.
Not far beyond is the unusual Bakamagari, where the trail leaves the main road and passes beneath it through a long drainage pipe, over a set of raised rails so that people can keep their shoes dry. At the far end however, you are forced to wet your feet crossing the riverbed itself until reaching the trail again on the far side. This all feels a tad bizarre. Why would pilgrims need to bend at the waist and walk through a pipe? But it hits me that historically they never had, at least until the road and railway were built.
On the outskirts of Misedani much further on, a gentle road leads to the picturesque Yahashira Shrine. There a is junction here of sorts, with a small trail that wraps around the back of some houses and down to the banks of the Miyagawa River. In old times, a ferry service led pilgrims across, but today that would need to be prearranged. All is quiet along this jagged, rocky stretch of river, but for the flags whipping on the landing across the water.
I backtrack along the new Ise-ji route, which passes over the Funaki bridge, a 125 year old concrete beauty, with waist-high, vertigo-inducing railings. Safely across, I eventually reach the opposite boat landing that I’d seen earlier, just below another Yahashira Shrine, this one elegant and quiet and shaded by bamboo forest. The climb toward Misesaka-toge begins sharply and in earnest from here, but the going is easy, and I suddenly find myself on the other side.
Takihara-no-miya appears like an oasis. I walk a long while beneath the towering forest that shades her. It appears that the shrine is modeled on the grand Ise Shrines, with patches empty of all but stone, which suggests that these structures too are rebuilt every twenty years. The adjacent village of Taki has some very nice schools, old timey and made of wood, a taste of the simple and natural aesthetic flow of the towns that follow, each promising accommodation for the night.
An hour or so later, Tsuzurato-tōge crosses a ridge to the north. The name translates to “99 bends,” with stone steps rising steadily upward. The locals had used the pass until the 1930s, when the road was built. The villages in the opposite valley are a bit more built up but have a pleasant feel, and its primary canal leads toward Kii-Nagashima and the sea, and the bounty of the local speciality, fried sunfish.
The Uomachi village shrine is shadowed over by an immense camphor tree, not far from an old house filled with Showa-era retro delights. In the temple grounds nearby stand two stones marking the victims of a pair of tsunami. Surprisingly, one of these waves had been caused in the Hōei eruption of far-off Mount Fuji, an event that birthed the eponymously named Hōei pimple that is now a prominent feature on Fuji’s eastern flank.
Beside the temple is the house of a woman who spent most of her young adulthood in New York City, where her husband had been sent for work. Now a widow, she seems the town celebrity, having created her own reality here, teaching English to the local children, and charming foreign visitors who pass along the Iseji running past her front door. I wonder how she feels now, living with her elderly mother in this small village, far from Manhattan and all that that metropolis contains.
Not long afterward, atop Ikkoku-tōge, the views open over the sea, then I’m on the far side, dropping quickly into Furusato Onsen. Kii-no-Matsushima ryokan is my quiet base for the night. Dinner proves particularly entertaining, as the hostess regales me with charming stories. Good manners dictate that one doesn’t eat while being addressed like this, but you could drink. I amusedly sip my beer, thinking that perhaps this is a ploy. The longer she talks, the longer you’ll drink, and ultimately would need another in order to wash down the immensity of courses that is dinner. A clever strategy, which pays off in my ordering not one more drink, but two.
Miura-tōge comes and goes, with its beautifully simple wooden bridge and old Toyota Crown rusting into forest. It’s not long to the next pass of Hajikami. There is a choice of two routes here, but I take the Meiji trail, which gently leads me down to a long valley of farms sparkling in the morning sun.
Onward to the trailhead for Magose-toge. The stone stairs begin right at the base, and don’t cease until the pass itself. I rest a few minutes at the pass, then push up an even steeper set of steps to the summit of Tenkurayama, the path wild and rough.
The summit is rocky, with one incredible boulder that is as big as a three-story apartment building. A long iron ladder leads to its smooth surface, and from here I gaze awhile at the sea off to one side, and on the other, the towering Omine peaks stacked to the north. Amongst these, the smooth grassy head of Ogai-ga-hara stands mysterious and proud.
I arrive in Owase at the appointed hour, to be led me around on a food walk, where we pop into an assortment of small businesses to be given a small bite, the cumulative half dozen building to the satiable total of lunch. I will overnight here, and have hours to kill before the restaurants open for dinner, so wander over to the grand Owase Shine, then ramble around the town’s lanes until dark.
