‘Clouds are born from the womb of the mountain, which is why rocks are called the roots of clouds,’ writes the French academician of Chinese origin François Cheng, quoting a poem from the classical Chinese tradition. It has a similar poetic and symbiotic vision that inhabits the mountains of Japan, made up of mid-range peaks eternally covered in their green mantle. Nature holds the secrets of the world in François Cheng’s poetry, which is rooted in thousands of years of Chinese Taoist thinking. This same thought still permeates the minds of men and women who spend time in the sacred mountains of Japan in a quest for spiritual rebirth in contact with the sacred elements: they are called yamabushi, ‘those who lie down in the mountains.’ They perpetuate rituals that are more than a thousand years old and can be traced back to the legendary figure of En-no-Gyoja, a shaman or spiritual wanderer who led an ascetic life in the bear-inhabited mountains south of Japan’s first capital, Nara.
During one of my earlier travels in Japan, along the pilgrimage paths of the Kumano Kodo, I caught a glimpse of these singular figures, dressed in white and caramel robes, with headbands decorated with red or black pompoms, wearing animal skins around their hips, and carrying enormous triton conches that they use as trumpets to announce their arrival to the gods when entering the mountains. Yamabushi engage in strenuous walks, accompanied by prayers and mantras, expose themselves to the void on vertiginous cliffs, meditate under cascades of icy water, and walk over the glowing embers of ceremonial open-air fires. The mountain symbolises the womb of Mother Earth, and the ascetics enter it in a quest for purification and rebirth before returning to their daily lives, often in urban areas.
As someone who loves walking in the mountains, in contact with the natural elements, rocks and water, and who has a keen interest in Eastern spirituality, particularly Taoism and Zen, I decided to retrace the steps of the yamabushi in the mountains of Japan. Between October and November, the Japanese mountains offer an unparalleled spectacle, ablaze with the vivid colours of kōyō, the season of red leaves, the cloudless sky as if swept by a particularly meticulous Zen monk, and the scarcity of rain, creating favourable conditions for walking in the mountains. My first destination in the Autumn of 2023 was in northern Japan. On Mount Haguro, in Tōhoku, those provinces of the deep north immortalised by the itinerant poet Matsuo Basho, I meet Naoko, a young retiree who has embarked on a spiritual path after a long life spent serving others as a nurse. Her vitality and lively spirit are proof of the benefits of spending time in nature. Her spiritual guide is Master Hoshino, a vigorous 77-year-old Japanese who is something of a national celebrity and the author of several books on yamabushi practices as a way of personal growth. When asked about the meaning of asceticism in the mountains, Master Hoshino’s answer was:
‘Immerse yourself in nature. Listen to your senses. Then reflect on how you felt. That’s all.’
The apparent simplicity of his words reminded me of the kōan of the Zen tradition, the unanswerable questions or anecdotes used by Buddhist masters to train their disciples and help them progress along the Way.
A change of geography and atmosphere took me more than 2,000 km south to the island of Kyūshū in my search for yamabushi. Since time immemorial, the Kunisaki Peninsula has been a spiritual centre and cradle of syncretism between Shintō — Japan’s ancestral religious system — and Buddhist practices, which were introduced from nearby Korea via China and India. Here I meet up with Everett, an American who has lived in Japan for more than four decades, an artist-photographer and practitioner of shugendō. This religious current, followed by the yamabushi, combines esoteric Buddhist, Shinto, Daoist and shamanic practices. With Everett, I walk the rugged ridges of the Kunisaki volcanic mountains in search of a more powerful echo. Everett plays the horagai, the traditional yamabushi conch shell with its deep, ancestral sound, a sound that for him means resonating with the landscape: ‘The spirit of the landscape and my spirit have met and been transformed by it, so that the landscape is really within me.’ (cit. François Cheng).
Everett also tells me about dreamtime, the spiritual dimension he reaches through the practice of horagai, but also through asceticism under cold waterfalls. He learnt this training in the company of itako, the blind women shamans of Aomori province, and then perfected with the yamabushi of Mount Haguro. Listening to Everett’s story, I feel as if I’m holding in my hands the pieces of a greater picture that I’m beginning to visualise. But I’m still missing some key elements. So my next stop is Yoshino in central Japan, a remote village surrounded by hills on which 30,000 Japanese cherry trees were planted centuries ago in homage to the gods. This is where you’ll find two of the most important temples for yamabushi, Kimpusenji and Sakuramotobō. Here I meet a yamabushi monk that advised me to climb to the top of the Omine mountain range, the most sacred place in shugendō, where En-no-Gyoja spent the height of his asceticism according to historical sources. I am joined by Takamasa, a lay monk living at nearby Mount Kōya, the cradle of the esoteric Buddhism of the Shingon sect, as well as Takagi, another Shingon monk who will guide our group on this pilgrimage.
We begin the ritual ascent from the hot springs town of Dorogawa Onsen, nestled in a secluded wooded valley. Over the course of 5 hours, we climb to the main ridge at 1,700m, invoking mantras to Fudō Myōō, a fierce-looking protective deity, and a key figure in the yamabushi pantheon. Close to the summit and the Omine-sanji mountain sanctuary, we climb rocks exposed to the void with the help of metal chains before approaching the rock ‘looking west’, i.e. towards the Pure Lands of Buddhist tradition. This is where beginners are suspended by a simple rope above the void and told to confess their sins. I ask Takagi for his advice on good practice: ‘Take responsibility, experiment and sooner or later you’ll get the answer. Hard practice will help you to free yourself from all useless thoughts.’
Back in Kyōto, I head for Wani, a rural village nestled between the mystical Mount Hiei, the guardian mountain of the former imperial capital, and Lake Biwa, Japan’s largest body of fresh water. This is where you’ll find the Wani-Ontakesan shrine run by the Okamoto family, whose members practise a unique syncretism that worships Mount Ontake. Japan’s second highest volcano (after Mount Fuji), located in Nagano Prefecture in the southern Japanese Alps. The worship of Mount Ontake has a long history although it has only been accessible to lay believers for around 200 years after being ‘opened’ by two ascetics in the late 18th century. This sacred mountain religion now has hundreds of thousands of followers across Japan. A particular feature are the oza, possession ceremonies, during which the group leaders enter into a trance and act as mediums between the deities and the believers. The Okamoto brothers developed their spiritual powers through years of physical training typical of yamabushi, including daily meditation under the waters of a mountain waterfall.
In Kyoto, I also meet Jann, an Australian doctor of natural sciences, who has been following the Okamoto brothers’ training for years. Jann tells me about her experience of a winter pilgrimage to Mount Ontake, braving the snow and low temperatures. This is also when the faithful practise takigyō, the asceticism of meditation under the icy waterfalls. Jann tells me that the whole pilgrimage was a revelation that she finds hard to put into words. I find her courageous to have accepted such a challenge, and I remember the words of the Okamoto brothers: ‘Fear is the gateway to shugendō. Fear engenders respect for the mountain and the elements, and also destroys excessive ego. Practitioners are naturally selected through trials. Many beginners give up. It’s not physical strength that matters most, but strength of heart. Kindness is essential, because through kindness you can help others, and this is the supreme aspiration of every yamabushi.’
The end of my journey approaches as I visit Mount Ontake to experience the sacred mountain in person. From the top of the 2,000 metre-high eighth station I take in the 180-degree panorama. The sky is blue, from azure to cobalt, and the wooded slopes of the mountain gleam with ochre colours, changing from mustard yellow to vermilion red. At this altitude, it’s the Japanese larches and their golden needles that take pride of place on the palette. The summit of the volcano behind me sleeps peacefully. There are few reminders of the infernal event that took place in 2014, when an estimated 63 hikers were killed in a sudden eruption. As I contemplate the landscape at my feet, thoughts turn to the mountains of Japan and the people who worship there. The words of an Italian mountain legend, Walter Bonatti, come to mind: ‘There are no mountains that belong to us, you know, but there are experiences that belong to us. Many people are capable of climbing mountains, but no one will ever be able to encroach on the experiences that belong to us and that will remain with us.’
An experience that has now taken root in me.
More about the author’s experience in the Japanese mountains can be read — in French — in his newly published book Yamabushi — La Sagesse des montagnes (Transboréal, Paris, January 2025). Website: www.theroutetokyoto.com
*some names of persons have been changed in order to protect privacy