Day #010

Day #010:

Yunomine.

The Trail Didn't Care about My Plan.

I planned this pilgrimage like a strategist.

Every shrine. Every rest stop. Every sleeping mat.

Trail topographies. Hydration points. Contingency routes.

My Excel spreadsheet looked like the launch plan for a new product line – a Mondrian of colorful cells organized across dozens of tabs.

The planning felt like control. From the safe confines of San Francisco, it gave me confidence. That control and confidence felt like protection.

And – honestly – I think I needed this plan because it gave me proof - life could still be ordered if I tried hard enough.

I thought I could prepare my way into this pilgrimage. I could spreadsheet my way into the path of spiritual growth.

Then I arrived.

The Kumano – ancient, sacred, unmoved – had its own plans.

They involved Mother Nature.

Lightning stitched across the sky.

Thunder was the soundtrack to my steps.

Rain – my constant companion – without pause. Without mercy.

Each step became less about meditation and more about self-preservation.

My thoughts weren’t deep. They were soaked. They were singularly focused: Next step.

I wasn’t scribbling life revelations into my journal. I was cussing – a lot.

There were moments – drenched and slipping on the mountain’s edge – when I really questioned what I was doing. Not because it was hard or particularly dangerous – but because I no longer controlled the situation.

Deep in the Kii Mountain Range of rural Japan – hiking alone on an ancient trail – I found myself completely at the mercy of Mother Nature.

That’s when reality set in - and scared the sh*t out of me.

In the span of a few hours, all my planning – useless.

In that moment - the pilgrimage began.

It’s not the one I planned. It was the one I was going to get.

There’s a myth we cling to: Planning and effort guarantee outcomes.

If we plan well – life will cooperate.

If we try hard – we will succeed.

That’s just fundamentally not true – but it gives us the illusion of control.

Plans are just possibilities. Ideas. Blueprints.

And effort is only the beginning – not the assurance – of anything.

On a pilgrimage – you don’t earn the "sacred" simply by mapping it out.

You receive it by walking. Slipping. Falling. Getting back up. And letting go.

The measure of success is grit and resilience – not spreadsheets and hours logged.

 Last night, I made it to Hongu Taisha.

It’s the heart of the Kumano. A sacred shrine, nestled in the misty forest of the mountains.

Getting here – given the conditions – feels like a minor miracle.

I'm not gonna lie - I'm proud of myself. The past few days kicked my ass - but I did it.

Unfortunately, several key points along the next leg of the trek are washed out or unsafe to traverse.

And that means I must pivot.

Everything I prepared for back in San Francisco – irrelevant now.

I’m disappointed and frustrated.

Humble and aware.

And calm.

I’m here – and that’s enough.

Today – instead of pushing forward - I soaked in the oldest onsen in all of Japan – an ancient hot spring revered for centuries. It’s the only UNESCO onsen in the world.

This was not part of the plan. This was simply an opportunity that presented itself.

But for the first time since I began this trek, I felt still.

No lightening in my eyes. No thunder in my body.

Just steam. Silence.

Back home, we do the same thing: We map out careers. Relationships. Ambitions.

We tell ourselves we’re in control.

But we don’t get to choose what shape these paths always take.

Sometimes they look like failure.

Sometimes they feel like rain.

Sometimes, they only show up when we’re too tired to keep resisting.

And sometimes we just say "yes" - and go.

I’m learning that the real beginning of the pilgrimage isn’t the first breath or the first step –

It’s the moment you surrender the plan.

Because what makes this experience sacred isn’t that it’s on a map or a spreadsheet. It’s not a certificate of completion.

It’s that the journey meets you – in stillness, in disruption, in desperation, in surprise.

Even if it’s wet.

Even if it’s different than you hoped.

Even if it’s the last thing you expected.

So I sit here now – at a tiny guest house in Yunomine - watching this monsoon unleash its fury on the mountains and forests around me.

It’s violent.

It’s also beautiful

And I’m humbled. I’m still.  

My clothes are drying on the garment rack. Limp. Heavy.

My hiking bag is battered. Bruised.

I realize white was probably not the best color choice.

I sip a local IPA. Slurp down my ramen noodles.

And I listen – matching the sound of my keystrokes to the pelts of rain on the window.

They rhythm helps me tell this story.

San Francisco Mark would’ve called today a failure.

Kumano Mark knows better.

We never really walk the trail we plan. But sometimes, the trail that finds us is the one we are meant for.

And that’s good enough for me.