by Edward J. Taylor

We arise at 1:00 am, behind a man who has trekked Hiei-zan’s 40 kilometer Kaihōgyō over a thousand times before. After a quick prayer at Konpon-chu-dỏ, we suddenly move along the paths at a surprisingly quick pace. The rain has cleared but the clouds keep everything below the knees in darkness. I am carrying a small flashlight, but after the first initial descent down a long flight of stone steps wet with rain, I decide to trust my footing, rely on instinct.

I had wanted to take part in the Kaihōgyō for about a decade, after reading about the Marathon Monks of Mt. Hiei in John Stevens’ classic book. The practice united two themes that had been important cornerstones of my life in Japan: mountaineering and a physically-challenging spiritual practice, both of which draw upon the reserves of what in Japanese is known as jiriki, ones own inner strength.

As this is a pilgrimage, I channel Thich Nhat Hanh, peace and mindfulness in every step. I do slip a few times, mainly snagging my feet on tree roots. Even those with lights slip occasionally, firing a kaleidoscope of flashlight beams into the trees. A lot of these pilgrims are past middle age, and as I watch them slip, I begin to see the nature of broken hips: of the shock at the sudden loss of balance and the quick, jerky, unconscious thrust of a leg to stop the fall. The only one of us with sure footing is the monk’s dog, which dashes along the trail, appearing and disappearing into the dark.

During our walk, we stop to pray at various spots that our guide has long ago memorized. Many are temples, some are statues, but most are simply trees or stones, signifying that this pilgrimage goes back to more animistic times. The prayers last only a few seconds–a rustle of beads, a few muttered words, then we’re off again. We walk on, along the ridges, the lights of Kyoto far below us, but above the heads of people sanely sleeping away the muggy mid-summer night. Up here, the man-made concepts of time and distance mean nothing. We will finish this hike when it was finished. I like the idea of this, of doing a task for its own sake. I am beginning to envy the monks, passing a life this way for seven years. But then it hits me. Isn’t their training, as amazing as it is, merely a long, deluded attachment to the completion of it?

We have a long tea break in the far western part of the mountain, then the sixty of us commence our descent east toward Lake Biwa. The sun begins to rise now, finally offering a clue as to the chronological time. In the dull blue light, I think that lakeside Shiga looks a little like Hong Kong.

It’s full dawn when we reach Hiyoshi Taisha and the base of the mountain. We take a long break at a nearby temple for more tea and onigiri. We’ve lost quite a few people on the way, but I am surprised to see one woman in her 70s who I’d met on the bus. I chat with a smiling, almost Gollum-like 85-year-old sitting beside me. I wonder how they’ll fare next, on an almost vertical fourteen kilometer climb back up to the temple.

Six hours after we set off, I am among the first to arrive back at Enryaku-ji. There are only about fifteen people present for the closing prayers. I have no idea whether the rest were still behind or had given up and are snoring comfortably in their hotel beds. Not a bad idea, I think, so after a long bath I return to my room, and seek out emptiness in sleep.

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For more by Edward J. Taylor, please check out this travel piece along Korea’s east coast, or this account of the Hoshi Matsuri, or this personal account of Japan’s hosting of the World Cup, or this article on visiting Cuba, or this lighthearted look at walking along the Kamogawa.