Day #009

Day #009:

The Kumano Kodo.

The Silence before the First Step

It’s just me and the mountain.

No words. No distractions.

No map. No guide.

Just me and the trail.

I tell myself I know what I’m doing.

That’s a lie.

Hopefully the pilgrimage forgives me.

Creatures I’m not familiar with are singing in the forest.

I’ve never heard their language.

They exist in the unseen.

The river hums behind me – soft. Rhythmic.

The trees sway all around – dancing in the wind.

They bow towards me like they know something I don’t.

Mist spills down the mountain – I’ll be trekking through the clouds soon enough.

I’m in the valley now – standing at the foot of the Kumano Kodo.

I have this place to myself.

Alone.

Hushed.

I haven’t seen another soul in over an hour.

Just Mother Nature. My backpack. And me.

I can’t decide if this comforts me – or unnerves me.

I can’t see my destination. Only that’s its far.

Past the switchbacks. Beyond the mist.

Further than I can hold in my mind.

Sweat beads down my body – I feel the dribbles along my neck, arms, and back.

I haven’t even taken a step.

The humidity in this part of Japan has proven to be an annoying travel companion – I didn’t ask for it – I just have to accept it.

Like everything else here – it just is.

My backpack feels light and heavy at the same time.

So do I.

Although I feel strong – I feel tense.

There’s a tremor beneath the surface of my calm.

I look down at my legs – I’ve nicknamed them mountain conquerors.

I whisper to them: “This is going to hurt.”

Blisters. Bruises. Pain.

We’ll fall. And we’ll get up.

You’ll beg me to stop – I won’t.

I’ll keep going.

I can see my reflection in the river.

I look like a man on the edge of something real.

I think Jess would probably think I look cool.

Simultaneously I realize immediately though:  This will be the cleanest I’ll be for the next bit of time.

It’s not gonna be pretty – but it’ll be mine.

Across the only road in sight – I find the gate.

As I walk toward it, I hear the crunch of gravel beneath by boots.

I’ve always loved this sound.

This is a good start.

If there’s ever a metaphor for simplicity and minimalism – this is it.

Under a canopy of bamboo and cedar, a single tori gage – cement, weathered, unassuming – marks the beginning.

There’s no crowd at the starting line. No applause when you step up to the trail. No banner.

The gate is a quiet invitation – the quietest I’ve ever received.

And there’s an instant awareness – no one can walk this but you.

I bow – not just out of custom, but reverence.

For the path. For the place.

For the person I might become on the other side.

It’s often said the journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.

I don’t think that’s true. That’s a myth.

The journey starts before that.

The journey starts in stillness. In breath.

In the world around me .

It’s the silence of a pilgrim listening for something ancient within himself.

I look around.

I’m here.

This is happening.

This is the moment.

The tremors.

The nerves.

The pulse in my neck.

Self-doubt creeps by:

What if there’s nothing on the other side?

What if I walk for miles and still don’t feel whole?

What If there’s nothing worth discovering in this silence?

But then: breath.

Stillness.

Awareness.

The trail doesn’t really care who I am. It doesn’t need a reason.

It doesn’t ask for explanations.

It only asks – will you take the first step?

No more planning

No more itineraries or trail maps.

No more talking.

Just one thing left.

Not a plan. Not a philosophy. Not a mantra.

Just a decision.

A simple strategy really.

(I think of Jess – Is this how she felt when she told me to go?)

And so –

I take the step.