Bunsui and Kugami Mountain

It is apparently still the rainy season on the west coast and the weather is cool. I don't think the rain has stopped since I've been here.

on rainy days
the monk Ryokan
feels sorry for himself

Ryokan writes of his robe never drying at this time of the year. I can understand why. It just doesn't stop.

But that didn't stop me from getting out to Bunsui town today to see nearby Mount Kugami, where Ryokan spent much of his adult life. There's a bus that runs between Nagaoka and Bunsui and it takes only an hour, so I got a schedule and decided to catch the 9:40 am one.

I arrived in Bunsui ... a little town with about 16,000 residents. I knew there was a Ryokan museum and thought I would begin there and find out how to get to Mount Kugami. But where was the museum? I wandered around town for a while and then looked into a little rice store ... the owner lept up, greeted me warmly, and offered directions. But when I got there I found the museum closed.

So I made my way back to the bus/train station and approached a taxi and asked "Kokujo-ji?" (the name of a temple on Mount Kugami) and after a little communication difficulty we were off.

Where to? After taking a highway we started ascending a small winding road up Mount Kugami where about halfway up he pulled onto a gravel shoulder and opened my door, and pointed down a path where there was a small sign in Kanji. So I got out, in the rain, in the woods, and started down a trail.

So here I was on Mount Kugami. Finally. And alone, except for skiny little yellow frogs on the path leaping out of my way.

from the mountain paddies
near this gate
the sounds of frogs,
their voices precious to me
in the evening

The path led to a small shrine ... I didn't know at the time, but it was Otogo Shrine where Ryokan once lived.

As a boy I studied the Chinese classics but soon
grew weary of their content.
As a young man I learned Zen but failed to transmit it.
Now living next door to a shrine,
Half Shinto priest, half Buddhist monk.

I thought I might find a sign there to Gogo-an, a reconstruction of Ryokan's little hermitage further up the mountain. Not so. So I wandered around, found some nearby houses, and asked a woman who pointed me in what I thought was the wrong direction. But I crossed the road and found the trail I thought she had suggested.

As I followed it I saw a small sign with Kanji and "1.4 km" and kept going, but the trail became increasingly overgrown, and it was raining, and I was wearing my JCrew khakis and dress shirt and topsiders. And water was flowing in all the low places, so the trail had become it's own little stream. Was this really the way?

Eventually there was so much overgrowth, waist-level or higher, where there was supposed to be trail that I thought, "am I really going to do this?" And a little voice in my head responded, "only if you want to."

I wanted to, so I kept going and finally came upon another little shrine with a sign that made it clear I had gone 1.4 km in the wrong direction, and I was still more than 1.4 km to Gogo-an. So I followed the map on the sign toward Gogo-an up the mountain side for probably another couple of miles. As I got closer I saw parking areas and a large red pedestrian suspension bridge and realized I could have done this more easily if I could read Japanese. But no complaints. I made it to Gogo-an, wet and tired and very happy.

I took some photos of the hut, but what I really wanted to see was the view from the hut, what Ryokan would have seen. What were the sounds? The sounds of rain in the pines and water dripping from the eaves. And the scents of fresh air and great cedar trees.

Because of the weather, I suppose, I had Ryokan's little hut all to myself. So I sat there and tried to dry off a little, and let time pass.

Once in a while
I just let time wear on
Leaning against a solitary pine
Standing speechless,
As does the whole universe!
Ah, who can share
This solitude with me?

Of course, traveling alone, I haven't had many photos of myself ... but I wasn't leaving Gogo-an without a photo, so as the rain fell I sat my wet camera on a little bamboo post, set the delay, and got my souvenir. Well, I also picked up a small stone, washed it in a rain puddle, and put it in my pocket.

After resting an old thought returned ... how to get back to Bunsui? I wandered around and found a "real" souvenir shop that was closed. There was a telephone booth there but whom would I call? Was it really so far to Bunsui? Maybe I could walk ... so I went back to the road and started my descent.

How far was it? At a brisk pace it was over an hour, so I'm guessing about four miles. Fortunately my thoroughly soaked topsiders were still comfortable.

When I got back to town I must have looked like hell. I had been tromping through the woods and brush in the rain. I was looking for the bus station when I heard a voice from behind me. I had unknowingly passed the same rice store and the woman, who had given me directions in the morning, was waving at me and motioning for me to come back. She didn't speak English but I understood "ocha" (tea) and her gesture to have me join her and her friends for a cup.

She seemed so happy to see me and was so gracious, as were her friends. She understood a few English words (more than the Japanese I know), so we were able to communicate, sometimes gesturing, sometimes writing on little scraps of paper. And I spoke the one haiku in Japanese that I know

Ura o mise
Omote o misete
Chiru momiji

The store owner understood my poor attempt at Japanese, and motioned with her hands the meaning of the poem:

Showing its back
And now its front
A falling maple leaf

They knew I loved Ryokan and I knew they did, too. And so she called another friend who spoke English, who translated for me until it was time to catch my bus back to Nagaoka.