Despite the dark clouds looming overhead and the thunder in the distance, we decided to take the cable car up the mountain.  We swiftly glided over the treetops while gazing at the sweeping view of the city below.  There were wide swaths of rice paddies, eventually overtaken by clusters of buildings with smaller hills poking out of the architecture like little turtles.  In the distance, fading into the cloudy sky, was the sea.

As we stepped out of the transport, we each opened an umbrella to fend-off the steady drizzle.   Except for the weather, it was quiet.  The mountain was uncharacteristically deserted for a Sunday afternoon, but we appreciated the absence of crowds.  In fact, I think we passed by more statues than people on our way up the trail.  Sturdy but dainty looking Buddha statues lined the path, each chilling peacefully in its assigned space on the mountain.  Trees swayed gracefully overhead and we walked along the path up the mountain.

There were many Japanese maples.  Most were still full and green from the peak of summer.  However a few displayed warm bursts of color, marking the changing of the season into an autumnal glow.  We came to a large temple made of beautiful wood.  I think it was painted once but it had all faded away to reveal the beautiful color and texture of the wood beneath.  The beams and planks were smooth from age and there was an enduring softness about the building.  I watched as a family worshiped.  The light from a few candles danced in the dimly lit room.  The space, though plain, did not need the assistance of any other adornments to make it appear beautiful.  A grandparent helped a little boy to light his incense before putting it at the altar.  And the rain fell steadily outside.

We slipped our shoes back on and walked on a path that began behind the building.  None of us knew where it led, but despite the now somewhat heavy rain we continued moving forward along the muddy path.

There was an element of “real” in the experience, like the velveteen rabbit.  I felt cool drops of rain slipping off my small umbrella and cooling my skin through the thin layer of raincoat keeping me dry.  The smell of the earth was strong and mixed with the scent of the pine trees in a friendly and inviting way—the way the aroma of freshly baked cookies draws one into a home.  It felt like wandering in the forest of a fairy tale, and I waited for something enchanting to happen.  Then it did.

The path ended at a clearing with three large buildings.  Just as we arrived the rain started to pound down and we rushed into the shelter of the one that was open.  This place was an old school of sorts.  Monks had studied here, and plays had been performed in the adjacent building.  It had been used for a scene in “The Last Samurai,” but we had not seen a signpost bragging about this connection, just a simple piece of paper with a few pictures showing Watanabe and Cruise in scenes from the film.  Now the hall had been converted into a small museum.  But not a pretentious museum.  Just a simple one with piles of old tiles and carvings laid out on blankets on the floor, and some old prints displayed behind glass cases.  There were a few fancy statues and the like mixed in the collection.  But it felt more like perusing the contents of a forgotten attic than artifacts in a stiffly cataloged museum.  In this way, each item we viewed was a special discovery.

I most appreciated the building itself for offering us shelter in such an unassuming way.  The building was so accessible.  Despite the “elements,” the windows were open.  There was no glass, just a big spaces in the wall with a large shudders pulled up.  We watched the rain pour down the roof tiles and onto the courtyard where dozens of small streams from the hillside all seemed to be congregating in one big puddle in the middle before running off into the drainage ditches that ran alongside the buildings. 

It was really great to watch the rain falling down against such a beautiful backdrop, and even better that we were still dry.  And then the sky did the unexpected and began to reveal spots of blue.  And the rain slowed, and eventually stopped.

We traded out funny blue gnome slippers for our own shoes and set out back down the mountain, satisfied with our visit.

funny slippers

I continue to be amazed at the natural beauty of Japan.  Most photos I’ve seen of Japan seemed to be of gardens or cityscapes (Tokyo).  The other images I’ve seen have been prints or paintings.  Sure, the landscape looked great, but I didn’t know how far from reality the artists had gone in their representations.  Honestly, I just never really thought about it much—much in the same way that I never thought too much about what Indonesia looks like.  Conversely, there are some places whose images are catalogued in our memory from repeated exposure—the plains of sub-Saharan Africa, a tropical beach in the Caribbean, autumn in New England.  We learn these from repeated exposure—books, documentaries, films, calendars even.  But some places are not as wholly or accurately depicted in one’s mental photo album of location as another.

For me, Japan was one of those places that lacked sufficient imagery.  Why, I don’t really know.  But now I’ve added to my cache of scenes (beautiful hills, sturdy mountains, happy forests, mellow beaches, calming gardens) and I like it.  What’s more is that no matter how many pictures you have seen of a place, nothing is as wonderful as experiencing it in person.  The light hits the leaves in a certain way as a cloud blows over, how nature unfolds fluidly around you, something that cannot be captured in a 4×6 photo.  When you are there, you experience of the passage of time in a location, and the changes in the weather.  How can you truly experience the temperature in a picture anyways?  Temperature almost always affects my mood, and my mood in turn influences how I experience a place.  You notice so much more.  I bet I could have seen pictures of Mt. Shosha and been amazingly impressed by its beauty.  But the magic of waiting inside an old hall for a heavy downpour to pass, the sounds of the thick raindrops pounding on the roof tiles and splattering on the dirt yard outside, the smell of wet earth and fresh rain—well, you have to be there for that.  And I am very glad I was.  You can’t always pick such a great day to go somewhere, and I feel lucky that the weather was so wonderful on the day that the three of us visited this little mountain.