(continued from Part 1)
Day 4: Uchi-goma
On Sunday, I participated in an Uchi-goma, an indoor fire ritual at Chichibu Mandara Koya. This was a special event, and I was grateful that the timing coincided with my pilgrimage plans. It was also a welcome day of rest for my body. Even on Sunday morning, I was by no means sure that I could finish my journey. My feet were in rough shape, and though I was feeling very joyful to have made it that far, I was very tired.
Chichibu Mandara Koya is up in the mountains to the northeast of Chichibu City, tucked away off a quiet mountain road next to a beautiful stream surrounded by cryptomeria forests and kiwi farms. It is a quiet refuge of calm and quiet. The main room of the building is decked with images of Gods and Buddhas as well as Shugendō training and ritual equipment. A soft breeze accompanied the sounds of the babbling brook outside as we sat and visited before the ritual began.
The ritual setup was beautifully put together by the teachers and another member of our group, and featured offerings of local fruit and vegetables. On either side of the brazier that would hold the sacred fire were two fresh tree sprigs, one of Shikimi, Illicium anisatum, and the other of Sakaki, Cleyera japonica. Sakaki is an important sacred tree in Shinto, the plant from which the gods hung the sacred mirror to astonish the Sun Goddess with her own beauty. Shikimi is sacred in Buddhism, since its toxicity repels insects and its leaves appear fresh even after they are cut. Horyu-sensei explained that the presence and offering of these two plants to the flames symbolizes the union of Kami and Buddhas in Shugendo.
As at Omine, people were invited to write petitions on pieces of Hinoki (Chamaecyparis obtusa) to be offered to the flames as well. I always write my petitions in English because I feel like I’m better able to put my intention into it that way. I simply wrote “For the health of Chichibu’s mountains.”
The ritual felt very powerful. I felt more aware than usual of the moments when deities entered and left the space. The part I always feel most powerfully during goma rituals is the final chanting of the Mantra of Fudō Myō-Ō. I remembered the sensation from Buko-san, of the mountain as Fudō beneath me, a firm foundation beneath my feet.
When the ritual ended, we ate lunch and talked for a few hours. At one point, I started to feel a very intense humming feeling in my head and as I looked around the room, my head was totally full of the impression of green trees all around me, that I was back in the forest, surrounded by nothing but nature. I went outside for a cigarette and said thank you to the river, the trees, the sky, the land, for all their gifts, for carrying me safely thus far, and I suddenly felt a wave of energy rise up through me. I decided then that I would climb Mitsumine the next day.
That night, as I was falling asleep, I had an extremely vivid dream or vision. The Kōmyō Shingon began to hum in my head spontaneously. The darkness behind my eyes began to glow with a golden light, and I saw the gentle face of a Bodhisattva, robed and crowned in gold and radiating light, and the light from their clothing coalesced into droplets that were themselves infinite Buddhas.
Day 5: Mt. Mitsumine (Myōhōgatake)
I woke up the next day feeling fantastic and hurriedly got ready to ride the train to its last stop at Mitsumine-guchi Station, literally “The Entrance to Mitsumine.” I duct taped my feet and put on my boots as I rode the train. It was raining heavily when I arrived. Just after I crossed the bridge over the Arakawa, the great river that flows from Chichibu through Tōkyō, I saw a huge male monkey picking berries on a fencepost. Perhaps a farewell from Mt. Bukō, wishing me speed on the next part of my journey.
A large torii gate guarded by two stone wolves beside the road marks the entrance to the mountain path. The red bridge that crosses the Arakawa and leads to the trail up the mountain is, as at Ōmine's Sanjō-gatake, the threshold between this and the other world. Passing over the river, swollen and roaring from the rain, the sounds of traffic almost immediately disappeared. Mitsumine is not a very high mountain, but it has an impressive atmosphere. Its trail is lined with centuries-old Hinoki and passes by several beautiful waterfalls, which I would guess were used for training when the mountain was still a Shugendō training site.
It was my second time climbing the mountain. Before ascending the trail, I took a small detour to the nearby “Kaniwa Caves.” The characters of the cave’s name means “Divine Garden.” This small cave system, like that at Bukō-san, was inhabited in the Jōmon period. I wonder how their interaction with Mitsumine was different from the people who lived at the base of Mt. Bukō. These caves are one of the most magical places I have ever visited. I spent a long time meditating and singing in them the first time I went. I was not about to pass by the opportunity to do so a second time.
Because of the heavy rain, a stream poured out of the mouth of the cave. I made my way inside with my headlamp, sat down on a relatively dry rock, turned off the light, and sat quietly as my eyes adjusted to the darkness. Somewhere deeper inside, I could hear bats chirping. Once I was still, I began to sing. Recalling the vision I had had the night before, I decided to try chanting the Kōmyō Shingon. This was one of the most powerful experiences I had on my journey. As I chanted, the cave seemed to wake up, inviting me deeper and deeper into the experience of chanting, my voice soaking into the walls, into the mountain. My voice took on an unfamiliar and alien quality as I continued, the mantra’s syllables floating like lilies atop the droning stream of my chanting. I could feel the invisible eyes of beings watching me from all around. Eventually, I got the sensation that I’d sung enough, returned to silence, and then exited the cave in a state of deep quiet. I blew my horagai outside the cave to let the mountain know I was coming up, and then began my climb.
I didn't see another soul on the trail until I reached the shrine, even though it was Mountain Day, a national holiday in Japan. I had the gorgeous forest full of ancient trees and happy plants all to myself. The benefits of rain! My mind was clear and still as I walked. I greeted waterfalls, trees, and boulders, rested and meditated when I felt like it, and sang when I wanted.
The shrine, though, was a different story. I had assumed that the State of Emergency recently re-declared in Saitama would keep people away, but I arrived to find the sacred platform for praying toward the mountains crowded with visitors, most of whom came by car, judging by the full parking lot below the shrine. I chanted the "Rokkon Shōjō Ōharae no Kotoba," an important prayer in Shugendō that describes the process of purifying (Shōjō) the Six Roots of Consciousness (Rokkon).
The task of Rokkon Shōjō is one of the main reasons Shugenja enter the mountains. In exposing ourselves to the wild sanctity of nature, we invite our vision, smell, hearing, speech, touch, and minds to be overwhelmed by it, to replace our jammed up everyday consciousness with the free-flowing energy of nature. After several days alone in the forest, I felt I was starting to experience this state of being for myself.
There aren’t many good translations of this beautiful prayer available in English, so I gave it a shot myself. It’s probably not perfectly accurate, but it gets the point across:
The Great Verse of Cleansing for Purification of the Six Roots
The Great Imperial Deity Amaterasu preaches:
Human beings share the divinity of the Kami under Heaven.
As such, quiet yourself and look at things as they are.
The heart-mind is, by its nature, the original dwelling place of the Luminous Kami.
How does one live without damaging this inherent divinity?
Because of the mind’s nature, the eye may see many impurities while the sense root of sight remains undefiled.
The ear may hear various impurities while the sense root of hearing remains undefiled.
The nose may smell various impurities while the sense root of smell remains undefiled.
The mouth may speak various impurities while the sense root of speech remains undefiled.
The body may be touched by various impurities while the sense root of touch remains undefiled.
Attention may be drawn to various impure thoughts while the mind itself remains undefiled.
This being so, the mind is cleansed of all its impurities.
Various phenomena are known to be merely shadows and forms.
That which is pure from the beginning cannot become dirty.
This cannot be understood by mere explanation.
From all the flowers of fruiting trees, fruit develops.
Thus, the Six Sense Roots are cleansed.
When the Six Sense Roots are cleansed, the Five Organ Spirits are healthy.
When the Five Organ Spirits are healthy, we are of one root with the Kami of heaven and earth.
Being of one root with the Kami of Heaven and Earth, we are of one substance with the spirits of the ten thousand things.
Being of one substance with the ten thousand things, no wish can be said to be unfulfilled.
This is the limitless spiritual treasure of the Way of the Kami.
ROKKON SHŌJŌ, ROKKON SHŌJŌ, ROKKON SHŌJŌ.
I saved the main shrine for my descent and walked past the busy restaurants outside the main gate toward the trailhead for Myōhōgatake, the peak where Mitsumine Jinja's Innermost Shrine is situated. Mitsumine means "Three Peaks," and originally referred to Myōhō-gatake, Mt Kumotori, and Mt Shiraiwa. The hike across all three, which normally requires a night of camping, is also high on my to-do list in Chichibu and Okutama.
As I passed through the four Torii gates that lead to the upper shrine, the fog around me got thicker and thicker. The wind blew leisurely through the treetops, raking them over like an enormous hand. I finally arrived at the steep rock face that leads to the summit. Before the Inner Shrine, the fog once again swallowed the blasts of my Horagai and the sound of my Shakujō. I made my way back to the crowded main shrine, and then back down the mountain by bus.
By the time I arrived at Seibu-Chichibu Station, the sky had cleared and a vibrant rainbow stretched across the sky to the left of Bukō-san.
Day 6: Mt. Ryōkami
I caught the earliest bus I could from Mitsumine-guchi and still didn't arrive at Ryōkami's Hinata Ōya trailhead until 9:00am. One day I'll walk along my originally planned route, the ridgeline path from Mitsumine to Chichibu Ontake all the way to Ryōkami, but riding the bus all that way made me realize just how far the distance between the two mountains is. I made the right call on the bus this time.
Ryōkami is one of Japan's 100 Famous Mountains, and its trail is a steep climb basically from start to finish. The sun had come out again, and I started feeling tired soon after I passed through the Torii that marks the entrance to the mountain.
I pushed myself up the path and just felt worse and worse. My legs were so tired that I wondered if I could make it all the way to the top. I pushed harder and harder until I had a revelation: the pushing was exactly the problem. A quiet voice whispered in my head, "Your body knows what to do, it's willing to cooperate with you. It can carry you better than you can carry it. Let go." I let my mind slip into a state of stillness and felt the tension I'd been holding in my shoulders and back release. I continued steadily up the mountain, letting my legs do the work for me as my mind sunk deeper into an uncluttered experience of reality, simple and unspeakable.
The trail from Hinata Ōya bus stop crisscrosses its way along a rocky riverbed, flanked by dramatic cliffs and boulders. Eventually it leads to the Kiyotaki Hut, so named because of the waterfall nearby (Kiyotaki means “Pure Water.”) This tall, slender fall is perfect for waterfall training. I found myself wishing that I had brought supplies to stay the night in the hut so that I could meditate and engage properly with the mountain.
On the day I climbed, the trail was more crowded with hikers than I’d expected, mostly groups of guys around my age laughing and having a good time as they went. I noticed quite a few raised eyebrows at my strange outfit, by now stained with mud, moss, and a bit of blood. Because of its plentiful waterfalls and challenging rock faces, Ryōkami was the most important training mountain of local Shugendo in the past. While on Mt Bukō I’d been largely alone, and on Mitsumine I’d been interacting with a mountain still mostly known for its spiritual importance. On Ryōkami, though, I was reinjecting spiritual practice into a mountain now much better known as a playground for mountaineers. It was an amusing experience, knowing that I was participating in a storied Japanese tradition while being given strange looks by Japanese climbers on the mountain.
After the hut, the trail continues its way up over the rocks toward the summit. In many places, chains have been installed to help climbers scramble up. At the base of the mountain, there were bright colored signs warning climbers that accidents on this stretch are common. I carefully continued until I made it to the mountain’s main shrine, a simple building set on a flat area not too far from the peak. “Ryōkami” means “Both Gods,” and refers to the divine couple enshrined here, Izanami and Izanagi. These two deities, the story goes, descended from heaven to the primordial sea and stirred the ocean with a jeweled spear, giving birth to the Japanese islands from the brine that dripped from its tip. They are the mythic progenitors of the Japanese islands, the deities of Shintō, and the Japanese people themselves.
Geologically, the entire range of mountains in Chichibu and Okutama including Bukō-san, Mitsumine, and Ryōkami are largely made of chert and limestone. These types of rock formed from layers of microscopic sea creatures collecting at the bottom of the ocean until they became compact, and then were thrust up by tectonic forces to become mountains. I often reflect on the fact that when I walk through Chichibu, I am literally walking on the bodies of biological relatives, if not ancestors. The mountains, like our own mammalian ancestors, emerged from the sea millions of years ago. I gave thanks to these ancestors as I chanted at the shrine.
From the main shrine, I climbed the final 20 minute stretch to the Inner Shrine at the top of the mountain. The summit is mostly bare rock, so the final climb was punctuated with breathtaking views. I could clearly see the entire course I’d walked over the last week stretched out before me under an azure sky, beyond it to Tokyo where the Skytree stuck out like the tip of a toothpick, and beyond that to the volcanoes of Nikko. It suddenly struck me that I had done it. I had finished the last climb of my journey. My cheeks hurt from the enormous smile that broke across my face.
I arrived at the top to find ten or so people lounging around the little shrine eating lunch, laughing, and smoking cigarettes. One man was leaning on the roof of the shrine as he munched a sandwich. I waited for a few minutes before I got up the courage to ask the guy if I could pray at the shrine, and he seemed a little embarrassed as he moved out of the way. The atmosphere made it difficult to summon the reverence and quiet I would have liked, so I honestly found the peak a little anticlimactic. I blew my horagai and chanted quietly, and then made my way down from the crowded summit back to the first vista I’d been so impressed by to soak in the view a little longer and feel the rock under my feet.
My experience on Ryōkami reminded me that there is a big difference between “Nyūbu,” entering the mountains ritually as a practitioner, and normal mountain climbing. I think mountain climbing is enjoyable to people for the same reasons that Nyūbu is powerful. Even without any ritual intent, getting into the forests, moving your body, bathing in pure water, and engaging with nature is scientifically proven to increase peoples’ sense of well-being. Maybe this is an echo of the Rokkon Shōjō sought in Shugendō; even a passive interaction with nature has noticeable positive effects on people. Nyūbu, however, is actively entering the mountains understanding that you are interacting with beings who are far older, wiser, and more powerful than you, acknowledging that you are their child and their student. Hiking is like talking to a friend outside a university classroom; you might catch a couple snippets of wisdom by accident. Nyūbu is like taking the class. I have a feeling I will find it difficult to just “go hiking” again after this pilgrimage. Part of me will always be doing Nyūbu whenever I enter the mountains.
I descended the way I’d come, said my final prayers and blew my last horagai notes at the Torii, then meditated while waiting for the bus back to Chichibu. Although the final result was different from my original plan, I’d accomplished what I’d set out to do. I had walked from the plains to Chichibu, and I had made contact with the three sacred mountains. I felt proud of the journey I’d taken, but at the same time felt that this was not the end of anything. All the dozens of kilometers I had walked, the songs I’d sung and prayers I’d chanted, were only an early step in building connections and being of service to these mountains. Shugyō, training, is about doing hard things physically, yes, but the point of doing those things is to put yourself in relationship with various beings, to observe the changes that those relationships affect in your own mind, and to wield those changes responsibly on behalf of other people. That can’t be accomplished in one week.
This pilgrimage was one of the most challenging things I’ve ever done, but one of the most amazing. I am already looking forward to returning to the mountains (once my blisters heal).
This was a long one, so thanks for reading if you made it to the end!