From a distance, the houses encrusting the hills of the Kotsubo neighbourhood remind me of barnacles. They crowd together, layer upon layer, hiding the surface of the land. Nonetheless, thanks to good historical preservation of the region, ancient paths called kiridoshi still remain at ground level. Narrow trails designed for feet and hooves, kiridoshi formerly served as escape routes for samurai warriors and important political figures. These paths still meander in and out of the modern neighbourhoods of the Kamakura area where my elderly parents still live.
I’d temporarily moved back to take care of them. Fresh off a four-month hike of the Appalachian trail, I found myself desperately needing to find the same kind of nature in Japan. By ‘nature’ I did not mean a manicured park to walk around in circles, but a path winding itself through untrimmed trees where the wild had something like autonomy. Kiridoshi did just this for me. They made it possible to spend a whole day walking in and out of towns and residential neighbourhoods and back into the small mountains to visit old tombs, temples, shrines and places commemorating the time that someone famous got their head chopped off.
The trail I walked daily was very close to my parent’s house. The trailhead is blocked off with short barricades to keep bikes and vehicles from venturing in, but there are no markers pointing you to the trail itself. This lack of clarity does nothing to stop the swarm of eager day hikers filing out of a tiny public bus. They have shiny backpacks, boots with thick socks, pants that look like knickers, sun shield hats, gloves, hiking poles and canteens. I have none of these things, yet we are heading in the same direction and sharing the same purpose, I think. The asphalt turns abruptly into a moist dark rich soil covered in bamboo leaf, and the path is always shaded from even the strongest summer heat. I inhale deeply of this damp moldy air and feel instantly restored.
This time of year, in early spring, the first thing you hear is the uguisu bird, a small matcha-tea coloured bird with the distinctive call of “Ho-hokekyo” that echoes through the woods. The path leads straight into a two-story high split rock pathway befitting its name of kiridoshi, which means “cut through” in Japanese. Someone chiselled this massive boulder in half to create a narrow passage, just wide enough for a horse. I walk by the rock wall and touch the jagged edges of the cut stone, wet and slippery, and think of the people who etched this rock. People with intentions that could be like mine. People who need to cut through.
Walking up, I head to the split boulder, where the trail hugs a wooded cliff on the left, and a steep rocky wall on the right. Ahead, there are steep steps leading to Yagura, a small series of cave-like tombs that house grave markers. The tombs are open seasonally, with volunteers handing out brochures explaining the history of the tombs. The monuments have a small lookout for viewing the Zushi town below and a circular roped path that lets you observe the lantern gravestones from a safe distance. The small caves are maybe five feet tall, with numerous small identical grave markers. The small caves look cosy; I can imagine a guileless child wanting to run into them to play hide and seek, oblivious to the looming spirits and the historical weightiness of tombs. This is a solemn place of unusually quiet visitors, many of whom are dressed, perhaps irreverently, in hiking garb. They do not speak: the only sound is the occasional clanging of metal cups dangling from backpacks or the stabbing of poles digging this sacred ground. Uguisu continues its ho-hokekyo, and the scent of plum and cherry fills in the air.
As I depart, I spot an orange tabby cat peers out from short bamboo bushes. I call to the cat, but it doesn’t move. There are signs of it being fed with small dishes but the cat must know that I am a stranger. I am missing my cats I left in my Appalachian home. A little fur squeeze would have healed my homesickness, but this cat is not going to sacrifice his dignity for that nonsense.
Heading towards Kamakura, I spot a big building below and a sound that reminds me of an engine humming. A tall chimney drifting smoke and few black cars in the parking lot gives away its purpose: it’s the funeral hall that I drive by when I take my dad to the hospital. The hum is coming from the crematorium.
I keep hiking, following the trail up and over a small hill until it opens up. I look for Mt. Fuji over the overgrown trees but instead I discover a woman crouched down alone by the bushes, filling up maybe ten dishes with homemade cat food. “Konnichiwa!” I greet her, smiling to hide my nervousness, because I am not entirely sure she is real. My mind is too full of ghosts, spirits, ancient gravestones, and future burials awaiting me. Startled, she hunches over the dishes and throws a silent glare in my direction before returning to her task. Maybe she’s been feeding the unfriendly tabby at the yagura. I don’t know. She is clearly not going to tell me. I continue on my way.
The path is steep and slippery and slow and suddenly opens up onto a cement pavement in the middle of a graveyard. On the right side, graves seem to be older than the left, and I see another yagura in the distance. Inside that cave there are recent gravestones as well as a dilapidated stone deity and offerings of multi-coloured fresh chrysanthemums. Unlike the previous yagura, in other words, this one belongs to a family minding this site to honour their ancestors. I do not wish to disturb it. Turning back around, I spot a thick shadow winding among the gravestones. It is a black cat running away from the weight of my gaze, rushing up in the general direction of the trail. Irrationally, I follow it, but it has vanished.
Well, had I dreamt it all?
Dejected, I continue back on my original path through the graveyard. It is a beautiful mountainside walkway, with neatly lined gravestones at various levels, higher up on my left side, looking down on them on the right. Suddenly on my left are two black cats sitting on top of a gravestone. Quiet and motionless, the gaze down on me as if they have been watching me all my life. I smile and wave hello, but they say nothing. Their gazes follow me as I continue on the path. I hear their silent paws next to me as I continue my journey.
The dirt path brings me to a small temple building outfitted with two beautiful water basins to collect rainwater from the roofs. To the left there is yet another cave carved into a rock wall. It is protected by a lattice gate preventing hikers from going inside. Peering into the dark void, I spot a stone block festooned with flower offerings. A sacred rock, then. Pulling away from the lattice gate, I see a small torii (shinto gate) marking steep stone steps that lead me to the top of the rock, which offers a spectacular view of the town of Zushi as well as a carved shelf and a wooden door with a tiny window. Looking through the window, you can barely make out the serene face of Kannon deity. Behind it is a small but tall pagoda with a perch big enough for a person or two. I thank the unfriendly kitty gods for granting me solitude, and sit alone with the cats and the gods.
Back on the graveyard path, I suddenly realize that I am no longer on the kiridoshi but in the temple grounds that own this graveyard. Coming down the hill, the path widens to a larger vehicle-accessible pathway. Shaded by big oak trees, the cement steps are serene. The area is intensely quiet. At the bottom of the hill is the hut provided for cemetery visitors along with ersatz wood buckets made out of plastic. Filled with water and special scoops; they are there for visitors to use to water gravestones. Next to various signs explaining how to use the buckets, there is a paper with calligraphy brush writing.
In Japanese, the paper says:
Not the wealth in your treasure chest but the wealth in your body (the body of health)
Not the wealth in your body but the wealth in your heart (the heart of gratitude)
One Wisdom
I descend until I am back at the wide asphalt road where I’d started. It is not very far to get back to my parents’ house but it’s going to be a long walk just the same. Sighing, I look up at the pagoda where I was just a few moments and an eternity ago, on top of the mountain where ghost cats eat homemade food. I cannot hear the uguisu calls anymore. My escape is complete.
