From Tokyo to Nikko
In my last blog post, "Ten Days in Japan," I wrote about the trip that my son Alexander and I took to Japan in August, and what we did and saw our first three days, spent in Tokyo. The list of things we wanted to see or do in Tokyo was growing rapidly when the time came to leave. Alex predicted we probably wouldn’t want to leave no matter where we went, and this was perspicacious to a degree, starting with Tokyo. However, we had 4-star reservations in Nikko so we went to Tokyo Station and got on the express.
Photo by Alexander Mawyer
Americans call these “bullet trains” but our guide at the Meiji Shrine told us these locomotives remind Japanese people of snake heads, not bullets. Shinkansen means “new railway.” The expresses are famous for speed, safety, comfort, service, and exactness of schedule, and yet more could be added: the friendliness of the staff and other passengers, the roomy and luxurious design—even the coffee was good. The damp towel the stewardesses hand out doesn’t sound like a major amenity as I sit here writing this, but in Tokyo in August a nice fresh damp towel is a great thing. The slight extra cost of the first class carriage was more than worth it. The trains are an engineering marvel and the customer service is another marvel, and we did not want to get off. However, to reach Nikko we had to change trains and get on a local commuter line at Utsonomiya.
It’s probably worth noting that if the shogunate had not collapsed when it did, the first railroad line in 1860s Japan would have run from Edo to Nikko in one direction and from Edo to Kyoto in the other. The Nikko branch line climbing into the mountains was not luxurious or swift but had the same sense of dispatch, careful scheduling and attention to detail we soon learned to take for granted even on sleepy rural trains. The Nikko line has a
sleeping cat painted on the cars and we guessed this was a triple entendre, referring to the Shrine of the Sleeping Cat at the Tokugawa Mausoleum and also a pun on Nikko and neko.
It’s probably worth noting that if the shogunate had not collapsed when it did, the first railroad line in 1860s Japan would have run from Edo to Nikko in one direction and from Edo to Kyoto in the other. The Nikko branch line climbing into the mountains was not luxurious or swift but had the same sense of dispatch, careful scheduling and attention to detail we soon learned to take for granted even on sleepy rural trains. The Nikko line has a
sleeping cat painted on the cars and we guessed this was a triple entendre, referring to the Shrine of the Sleeping Cat at the Tokugawa Mausoleum and also a pun on Nikko and neko.
Photo by Alexander Mawyer
Nikko at first sight seems much like West Virginia—the same fresh moist forest air redolent of ferns and evergreens, the frequent or some might say incessant cool rains, the masses of cloud and the cloudlike forms of
mountains. In such places any latent tension from the woes of civilization seems to flow out of the soles of one's feet down into some cthonic oblivion where it belongs, possibly as the natural food of well-intentioned supernatural toads under the earth. That’s just a theory though.
mountains. In such places any latent tension from the woes of civilization seems to flow out of the soles of one's feet down into some cthonic oblivion where it belongs, possibly as the natural food of well-intentioned supernatural toads under the earth. That’s just a theory though.
Photo of Nikko Station by Gary Mawyer
We took a cab from the station to the ryokan, or Japanese-style hot springs inn, where we would be staying for the next two nights. The cab was a battered and ancient affair, driven by a cigarette-smoking country guy who
drove with the windows rolled down while lugubrious enka music poured out of the radio. A touch of home feeling to that cab.
Hot springs ryokans are smaller and much more personal than hotels, with breakfasts and dinners planned for you, and hosts who assume you will want to take as many baths as possible in the time allotted. We were greeted by name as soon as they saw us. I guess we were easy to spot as Westerners. The outside of the ryokan was not ostentatious but the interior was astonishing; the building was constructed around a garden separated from the lobby, the tea room/bar, and the corridors by glass walls. The garden was a masterpiece of little pools, miniature black pine, miniature bamboo stands, tiny maples, and gorgeously weathered rocks delightfully carpeted with a careful selection of the finest mosses. It was quite impossible to tell from any one angle how large the garden was (it turned out to wrap around the two wings of the ryokan so each room had its own private garden view, no two alike).
drove with the windows rolled down while lugubrious enka music poured out of the radio. A touch of home feeling to that cab.
Hot springs ryokans are smaller and much more personal than hotels, with breakfasts and dinners planned for you, and hosts who assume you will want to take as many baths as possible in the time allotted. We were greeted by name as soon as they saw us. I guess we were easy to spot as Westerners. The outside of the ryokan was not ostentatious but the interior was astonishing; the building was constructed around a garden separated from the lobby, the tea room/bar, and the corridors by glass walls. The garden was a masterpiece of little pools, miniature black pine, miniature bamboo stands, tiny maples, and gorgeously weathered rocks delightfully carpeted with a careful selection of the finest mosses. It was quite impossible to tell from any one angle how large the garden was (it turned out to wrap around the two wings of the ryokan so each room had its own private garden view, no two alike).
Photo by Alexander Mawyer
The hostess, in a gorgeous kimono, settled us in the tea room and brought us a snack of handmade mochi confections (mochi sounds strange when you try to describe it; the delicate handmade ones are exquisite) and matcha served in chawan, which we gratefully sipped while staring in delight at the garden. We appeared to be the only guests there. The goal seemed to be to delude us into thinking we had stepped seamlessly and painlessly straight into a personal heaven.
Photo by Alexander Mawyer
It was time to go see Nikko. We had all day for it. The host, who spoke enough English to get on with, provided us with maps and plans and invited us to call him on the phone any time we wanted a ride back to the ryokan. As if we were that sort of people! By the end of the day we had walked about 8 miles, much of it up monumental shrine stairways.
Nikko is deservedly famous. In its heyday, not so long ago, Nikko was of considerable imperial importance. The Taisho Emperor had his summer home, the Tamozawa Imperial Villa, at the foot of the hill our ryokan was on;
indeed the ryokan seemed to have been somewhat influenced by the villa.
Nikko is deservedly famous. In its heyday, not so long ago, Nikko was of considerable imperial importance. The Taisho Emperor had his summer home, the Tamozawa Imperial Villa, at the foot of the hill our ryokan was on;
indeed the ryokan seemed to have been somewhat influenced by the villa.
Photo by Gary Mawyer
The Showa Emperor spent lots of time in the Tamozawa Villa as a child and later during the war used the villa as a convenient home-from-home. The current Heisei Emperor deeded the villa to the nation in 2000 after
considerable refurbishment. It is now a museum. We learned all this by stumbling over it. I had no idea such a thing existed or that I would soon find myself standing in the Taisho Emperor’s summer throne room. Truly we are surrounded by little miracles.
The Tamozawa Villa seemed not only comfortable, but somehow familiar. Probably it was the plants. We saw Nikko hydrangeas, Nikko spireas, and all sorts of other plants that Karen and I have grown for years, in our current garden and in the garden before that. As Alex said, we apparently traveled halfway around the world to look at the bushes in my own yard. This was to become a refrain of our trip as one nostalgically familiar plant after another presented itself on roadsides, outside train windows, in gutters and in gardens. It turns out that plants are a kind of universal language after all.
The day was turning cool and wet. We bought an umbrella to protect us from the rain misting down from the low clouds. A shop lady came out onto the sidewalk and literally herded us into her combination general store/dinette. Thus we discovered the breaded pork cutlet with curry and rice. It was fresh, handmade and truly delicious. Japanese curry is not really curry; it is a mild curry-flavored gravy. If you have it in the train station it might not be spectacular—it’s necessary to find a diner where they’re making it out of real pork chops and stewing their own curry gravy. This dish would have been utterly alien to the Tokugawa shoguns whose funerary monuments and associated shrines litter the surrounding hillsides.
In English-language travel literature, the Tokugawa monuments are often described as too florid to be in the very best architectural taste. It might help to view them in reverse order with no idea which one is which, as we did. Ignorance sometimes enhances appreciation.
considerable refurbishment. It is now a museum. We learned all this by stumbling over it. I had no idea such a thing existed or that I would soon find myself standing in the Taisho Emperor’s summer throne room. Truly we are surrounded by little miracles.
The Tamozawa Villa seemed not only comfortable, but somehow familiar. Probably it was the plants. We saw Nikko hydrangeas, Nikko spireas, and all sorts of other plants that Karen and I have grown for years, in our current garden and in the garden before that. As Alex said, we apparently traveled halfway around the world to look at the bushes in my own yard. This was to become a refrain of our trip as one nostalgically familiar plant after another presented itself on roadsides, outside train windows, in gutters and in gardens. It turns out that plants are a kind of universal language after all.
The day was turning cool and wet. We bought an umbrella to protect us from the rain misting down from the low clouds. A shop lady came out onto the sidewalk and literally herded us into her combination general store/dinette. Thus we discovered the breaded pork cutlet with curry and rice. It was fresh, handmade and truly delicious. Japanese curry is not really curry; it is a mild curry-flavored gravy. If you have it in the train station it might not be spectacular—it’s necessary to find a diner where they’re making it out of real pork chops and stewing their own curry gravy. This dish would have been utterly alien to the Tokugawa shoguns whose funerary monuments and associated shrines litter the surrounding hillsides.
In English-language travel literature, the Tokugawa monuments are often described as too florid to be in the very best architectural taste. It might help to view them in reverse order with no idea which one is which, as we did. Ignorance sometimes enhances appreciation.
Photo by Alexander Mawyer
The hanging mist and the huge cryptomeria trees also helped soften the riot of forms.
Photo by Gary Mawyer
The shrines of the first Tokugawa Shoguns are unselfconsciously ostentatious. The main effect is straightforwardly baroque and thus beyond the boundaries of criticism.
Photo by Alexander Mawyer
These shrines were meant to be overwhelming. The shoguns coopted the labor of thousands upon thousands of the finest architects and stonemasons, sculptors, carpenters and woodcarvers, bronze casters, painters, saints, monks, ascetics and calligraphers, as well as toiling masses of labor, to transform these mountainsides. Over the next three centuries the mountains returned the favor by transforming the shrines.
Photo by Alexander Mawyer
Much of the fascination of the place is in the details.
Photo by Gary Mawyer
There were ample places to stop and purify ourselves. The ritual isn’t difficult and I didn’t want to miss any opportunities; in large part this was why I came. Nikko is a great place to practice one's ablutions. We felt like
old hands in no time.
old hands in no time.
Photo by Alexander Mawyer
Veneration, however, is more challenging. In all seriousness, anyone who stopped to venerate at every chance in Japan would soon be a flaccid mass of spent devotion. Incidental or spontaneous prayer, as near as I can tell, appears to be a natural act for the entire human race. Intentional prayer is more difficult. It almost might be called a professional skill. Possibly this is what leads some people to become atheists.
Move It, Gramps
Deep in the heart of Nikko’s vast complex of interlocked Buddhist and Shinto shrines and mausoleums, there is a sacred hollow, where little nature shrines predate the Tokugawa dynasty by many centuries. These shrines include a clump of divinely inhabited bamboo, a holy spring, some sacred trees of enormous antiquity, and several holy rocks.
Photo by Alexander Mawyer
The visitors to this unostentatious corner of the Nikko shrine complex whom we saw seemed to have mostly come to ablute and worship, draw fortunes and tie them to boards, pray, play Buddhist ring toss for lucky fortunes, perhaps make wishes. This was about something a lot older than the Tokugawas, and not freighted by powers and principalities.
The last of the grand shrines we managed to get to was the Nikkō Tōshō-gū, built by the Third Shogun, Tokugawa Iemitsu, for his grandfather Ieyasu, founder of the dynasty. It is a multi-tiered complex of structures whose summit is a long series of stairs and ramps leading to the Shrine of the Sleeping Cat. In the walked-out confusion of a long day, I wondered if the Shrine of the Sleeping Cat was actually the shrine of a cat or perhaps for the veneration of cats generally. After we made the daunting ascent to the Shrine of the Sleeping Cat I remember remarking to Alex that our late cats, Tiberius and Calpurnia, deserved a shrine like this and if I ever hit the lottery all our cats would have their remains moved and get a nice shrine.
The last of the grand shrines we managed to get to was the Nikkō Tōshō-gū, built by the Third Shogun, Tokugawa Iemitsu, for his grandfather Ieyasu, founder of the dynasty. It is a multi-tiered complex of structures whose summit is a long series of stairs and ramps leading to the Shrine of the Sleeping Cat. In the walked-out confusion of a long day, I wondered if the Shrine of the Sleeping Cat was actually the shrine of a cat or perhaps for the veneration of cats generally. After we made the daunting ascent to the Shrine of the Sleeping Cat I remember remarking to Alex that our late cats, Tiberius and Calpurnia, deserved a shrine like this and if I ever hit the lottery all our cats would have their remains moved and get a nice shrine.
In fact, we were at the mausoleum of Tokugawa Ieyasu.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tokugawa_Ieyasu
That shrine was closing for the day and the priests were requesting that people leave. A pleasant young man with a wife and small children replied, “I’ll do what you say—I don’t want to be sent to hell.” This was the first complex Japanese sentence I managed to understand in the wild, so to speak. While hardly sesquipedalian, just for an
instant I felt linguistically adroit. I owe it all to Jigoku Shojo.
As the sweating mob of visitors poured down the last flight of stairs to the main shrine, another priest said “Move it, gramps,” (“Ikimasho, ojisan”). When I looked around to see who this officious young whippersnapper was addressing, I realized it was me.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tokugawa_Ieyasu
That shrine was closing for the day and the priests were requesting that people leave. A pleasant young man with a wife and small children replied, “I’ll do what you say—I don’t want to be sent to hell.” This was the first complex Japanese sentence I managed to understand in the wild, so to speak. While hardly sesquipedalian, just for an
instant I felt linguistically adroit. I owe it all to Jigoku Shojo.
As the sweating mob of visitors poured down the last flight of stairs to the main shrine, another priest said “Move it, gramps,” (“Ikimasho, ojisan”). When I looked around to see who this officious young whippersnapper was addressing, I realized it was me.
Ghosts
It would take months or years to explore the wonders of Nikko. I’m sure the three mysteries meme (san-mitsu) and the ten wonders meme and many other memes would be gratified. I also wonder how many ways the place is haunted. There has been a lot of loss, a lot of opportunity for palimpsest. Rinnoji Temple once had over 500
buildings, of which 15 remain.
buildings, of which 15 remain.
Photo by Gary Mawyer
The genteel melancholy of the Tamozawa Villa was, how to put it, a little deeper than it needed to be. Again, the historical site is a ghost of itself—a generation ago the Tamozawa complex was larger. In a way the villa is the ghost of a ghost; elements of the structure were part of the Tokugawa palace, rebuilt into a villa by a Meiji-era businessman, and then acquired by the emperor and expanded into an imperial vacation house.
Photo by Gary Mawyer
Across the street, the Hachiman Shrine was deserted and unswept, it would not be too much to say deserted or abandoned. There were stones of immense antiquity as well as charming monuments from the Tokugawa era, but no one was home among the fallen branches. In the background were stelae of the climax period at Nikko, which did not invite approach. Here, we later found out, were the Graves of the Self-Immolated.
Photo by Alexander Mawyer
Nikko has undercurrents and mysteries and melancholy.
Photo by Alexander Mawyer
Walking back up the hill to the ryokan, we were waylaid by the shuttle bus after all, returning from the station after picking up more guests. The driver even knew our names. People in Nikko were so friendly, even the other
guests in the shuttle bus seemed delighted to have us climb in next to them, huge soggy westerners sweated through from a day of crawling around the mountainsides in mist and rain.
guests in the shuttle bus seemed delighted to have us climb in next to them, huge soggy westerners sweated through from a day of crawling around the mountainsides in mist and rain.
Photo by Alexander Mawyer
The hot springs were fabulous. Dinner, served in our room on a low table, was stunning.
Photo by Alexander Mawyer
Waking up in our room was like waking up in a dream, dawn light filtering through the shoji screen with the sounds of running springs, bubbling hot baths, birds chittering and curious carp snapping up insects in the background.
Day of a Thousand Konichiwas
Our hosts had planned a superb second day for us and furnished full instructions on getting up by bus into the national park in the mountains above Lake Chuzenji, starting at Kegon Falls. The terrain is upland temperate
forest, whose acute weathered slopes are volcanic in origin. Mount Nantai above Nikko is the genius loci of this landscape. The huge lake was impounded by an eruption about 20,000 years ago, and the moors and bogs in the uplands might well be decaying lava terraces.
forest, whose acute weathered slopes are volcanic in origin. Mount Nantai above Nikko is the genius loci of this landscape. The huge lake was impounded by an eruption about 20,000 years ago, and the moors and bogs in the uplands might well be decaying lava terraces.
Photo by Gary Mawyer
Photo by Gary Mawyer
The trail system is excellent and so well marked there is no need to be able to read Japanese to follow it. There were supposed to be bears but we saw none. There were also supposed to be wild monkeys but none showed up.
Photo by Gary Mawyer
The forest is well within day trip reach from Tokyo and other hikers turned up every few minutes. “Konnichiwa,” we said. As the hike progressed we found ourselves saying “konnichiwa” quite a lot. When we got to the lower end of the Kegon Falls trail we decided to veer off from the plan and add another leg of trail down the mountain toward Lake Chuzenji. On this stretch we encountered an entire elementary school’s worth of students on a field trip, divided by class, each class shepherded by its teachers front and back. In unison these groups would shout “Konnichiwa!” One group was an English class and they shouted “Hello!” instead. One kid added “Oh
no, wild animals!" In English!
no, wild animals!" In English!
Photo by Alexander Mawyer
A problem with good trails is the temptation to stay on them. Another final cascade toward the lake opened up and we took that instead of the bus. We found the temple, teahouse and souvenir shop for this river and relaxed
for a while and decided that we were nowhere near walked out. We were game for miles to come. Another bus stop was available just three Japanese kilometers along the lake shore. We decided to walk along the lake.
for a while and decided that we were nowhere near walked out. We were game for miles to come. Another bus stop was available just three Japanese kilometers along the lake shore. We decided to walk along the lake.
Photo by Gary Mawyer
We photographed the storm coming. From a distance, it didn’t look as bad as it actually was.
Photo by Alexander Mawyer
Then the heavens opened up. There is an absolute limit to how wet it is possible to get. We reached full saturation almost at once. By then we had the trail along the lake to ourselves. And it didn’t matter. Once you’re
fully wet there’s no way to get wetter.
We found a deer skull on a stair railing. "Do you think it's a warning?" Alex said. "I think it drowned in its tracks."
fully wet there’s no way to get wetter.
We found a deer skull on a stair railing. "Do you think it's a warning?" Alex said. "I think it drowned in its tracks."
Photo by Alexander Mawyer
Three Japanese kilometers is a long, long way. In fact it’s roughly a traditional measurement called a ri (里) ,
and tales of its origin vary, from the distance a hypothetical peasant can run in an hour carrying his own weight in firewood to the exact distance no one would want to walk in a downpour.
It stopped raining when we reached the bus station. The rain had disrupted the bus schedule back up the mountain, where the roads were mostly hairpin plummets. Ultimately a considerable gaggle of damp people gathered, waiting to be packed onto a replacement bus as soon as one could be found. It took a long time to get back to Nikko.
I'm sure Alex and I looked a muddy, bedraggled, gasping sight as we staggered back into the precincts of one of the most gracious and elegant ryokans for miles around.
and tales of its origin vary, from the distance a hypothetical peasant can run in an hour carrying his own weight in firewood to the exact distance no one would want to walk in a downpour.
It stopped raining when we reached the bus station. The rain had disrupted the bus schedule back up the mountain, where the roads were mostly hairpin plummets. Ultimately a considerable gaggle of damp people gathered, waiting to be packed onto a replacement bus as soon as one could be found. It took a long time to get back to Nikko.
I'm sure Alex and I looked a muddy, bedraggled, gasping sight as we staggered back into the precincts of one of the most gracious and elegant ryokans for miles around.
They Said They Were Americans But They Were Really Tanuki
Faced with the repeated offhand magnificence of the food and accommodations at our carefully chosen ryokan, before we left we tried to come to some understanding of what was actually going on in this small inn saturated with elegance. Most of the guests were there for the ryokan itself. They hadn’t come to look at temples, or to consider the enigma of how far three Japanese kilometers really is, much less to be chased down mountainsides in the rain by wild bears and monkeys. That was just us.
Everyone at this wonderful place was invariably well dressed (except in the bath, where the sexes were segregated and clothing was not an option), cool, calm and collected, poised, beautifully mannered, plainly relaxed and enjoying themselves tremendously. It was a place for distinguished people of taste and income to meditate over their tea after a hot springs bathing experience, while gazing upon a masterpiece of Zen gardening in surroundings dignified by an astonishing history of power and prestige. Westerners were unusual here. We got to wondering if were the tanuki in this lovely place -- a raccoon-like animal, in ancient times believed to have magical powers, who sometimes masquerade as humans for fun and mischief.
“We fit in perfectly,” I said. “We stave off hermeneutic stagnation, provide variety and amusement. Our role is to be different and slightly crazy.”
“They said they were Americans but they were really just tanuki" Alex replied.
“After they checked out, all the money they spent turned back
into oak leaves.”
Everyone at this wonderful place was invariably well dressed (except in the bath, where the sexes were segregated and clothing was not an option), cool, calm and collected, poised, beautifully mannered, plainly relaxed and enjoying themselves tremendously. It was a place for distinguished people of taste and income to meditate over their tea after a hot springs bathing experience, while gazing upon a masterpiece of Zen gardening in surroundings dignified by an astonishing history of power and prestige. Westerners were unusual here. We got to wondering if were the tanuki in this lovely place -- a raccoon-like animal, in ancient times believed to have magical powers, who sometimes masquerade as humans for fun and mischief.
“We fit in perfectly,” I said. “We stave off hermeneutic stagnation, provide variety and amusement. Our role is to be different and slightly crazy.”
“They said they were Americans but they were really just tanuki" Alex replied.
“After they checked out, all the money they spent turned back
into oak leaves.”
Photo by Alexander Mawyer
The next day we headed to Kii-Katsuura, in the furthest reaches of Wakayama Province. More on that in my next blog post.
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