Most of the graves in this cemetery include a stone monument with a space for flowers, incense, a font of water for purifying the grave, and a chamber beneath where ashes are buried. Atop each grave is a selection of sotoba (wooden grave markers), engraved with the names of the deceased, their dates of death, the names of the people who placed them, and a selection of prayers and other sacred formulas.

I am captivated by each grave’s sotoba. Using the Google Translate app, I spend a considerable amount of time translating them from Japanese into English, conjuring images of the deceased, imagining what their lives were like here.

As the sun begins to set, a cool breeze cuts through the graveyard; the sotoba rattles in their stones. I’m sure it is just my imagination (or is it?), but I sense each sotoba rattling louder as I pass, as if the spirits are imploring me to stay a little longer.

/

At Fushimi Inari, I hike through tourist-free back trails to the summit of Mt. Inari.

By a small waterfall shrine halfway up the mountain, I stumble upon a small woodworking studio, owned by a man named Kosho. Kosho has been a woodworker for over 40 years, 30 of which he has been based on Mt. Inari, where he also takes care of the waterfall shrine. His studio is not a shop per se, but there are some small handmade treasures available for purchase. He happily invites hikers in to teach them about his craft and his culture.

I purchase a Kokeshi doll, which he has carved from the branch of a tea tree. The crafting of Kokeshi dolls is a 200+ year old tradition – one that Kosho has been actively revitalising through his Kokeshi carving workshops. After our conversation, he sends me on my way with some cinnamon candy, directing me towards to mountains summit. It is an unexpected treat to meet such a generous, kind-hearted man.

While exploring the mountain, I walk beneath Fushimi Inari’s iconic torii gates, of which there are approximately 10,000, The gates are generously donated and bear the names of their benefactors (along with prayers and other sacred formulas) in black Kanji. Each one has a life span of around 10 years before it needs to be replaced. According to Kosho, there is always a long list of people waiting to make their contribution.

At the summit, I exchange an offering for an omikuzi (fortune). My Google Translate app struggles to translate the Kanji. According to the app, my fortune reads:

I used to go to college, but now I’m in the middle of the day.

It’s not coming again. It’s coming again.

Quite poetic, albeit nonsensical.

When I return to my hostel, I ask a staff member to help. He says the Kanji on my omikuzi are difficult to decipher, but that it roughly translates to:

Dream, now couldn’t come true, but something you can get.

Chance, enquire.

“This is the second highest grade of omikuzi,” he explains. “It’s a message from a higher power. It’s telling you not to give up on your dream.”

/

Another day another mountain. Today, a return to Maruyama Park. She has been calling to me since the day I arrived, when I first set eyes on her verdant peaks.

In the first fifteen minutes of my hike, I am ambushed by a murder of crows, who flap frantically around my head before ascending to the sky above. Unlike most people, I have a deep respect for these jet-coloured creatures. To me, the murder’s flapping and cawing feels not like a warning but a welcome.

The air is cooler and fresher — the fertile fragrance of moss and loamy soil fill my lungs and propel me deeper into the mountain. At times, I experience the exhilarating, fleeting sensation familiar to many hikers when you’re not entirely sure where you are. As I walk, I wonder: have I taken the right turn? Will I find my way home, or will this mountain claim me as her kin – as her own?

Eventually, I reach the top of the challenging incline, where there is a seemingly endless amount of terrain to explore — secrets to uncover. Unfortunately, the sun is rapidly sinking; while I can confidently navigate Maruyama’s peaks and valleys in the light of day, I know that she will be an entirely different being by nightfall, as her nocturnal creatures and dormant energies emerge beneath the light of the moon.

At the base of the mountain, at the moment I feel I have left the wilderness behind me, a wild rustle startles me into submission. A large, olive-green coloured snake slithers across my path and into the bushes ahead of me.

It feels like a very good omen.               

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