The following story is based on a true account that occurred in the Spring of 2013.
On my second trip to the incredible nation of Japan in the Spring of 2013, I tried to take full advantage of the time I had to explore the amazing landscape. From visiting the Kamakura daibutsu, or Great Buddha, of Kōtoku-in, the largest Buddha sitting criss-cross applesauce made of bronze in the Kanagawa Prefecture of Japan, to visiting Fukuoka Buddha, the largest Buddha lounging lazily on his side like he’s watching the Wendy Williams Show on a Tuesday afternoon, also made of bronze, at the Nanzo-in temple in the Fukuoka Prefecture of Japan.
Whether the Buddha was bronze and sitting criss-cross applesauce, or lounging about in a bathroom, mimosa in hand, one thing became certain: Japan loves it’s big, bronze, statues of Buddha.
At this point, after I had eaten and drunk my way through the majority of Tokyo, I found myself with another fairly full day free and with no agenda. Time to find another dope Buddha, I thought.
The general consensus, after receiving some very specific suggestions from some friends living in the city, was that I should visit the Daibutsu at the Nihon-ji Temple in the city of Kyonan, in the Chiba Prefecture of Japan. Or, as it was described to me, and I’m not joking:
Nihon-ji Daibutsu: The Largest Buddha Carved Into the Side of a Mountain.
While the temple itself was founded around the year 725 AD, this particular Daibutsu was carved into the mountain rock around 1774 AD by Guden, the 9th Hōsō priest of Nihon-ji. Or so my quick Google search beforehand informed me. Known for its massive size, and relatively unaccessible hike, the large Buddha is also accompanied by 1,553 rakan Arhat stone statues that were added to the temple around roughly the same time period. Apparently, it was quite the sight to see. And I was going to see it.
I woke up fairly early that morning, to make sure I gave myself plenty of time to get there, see the sight, and get back before the last train of the day. I assumed this would be roughly a 6-8 hour day of hiking, sight-seeing, and sitting in a quiet, Japanese temple; days I had come to love and truly look forward to. The silence was always perfect, and the gorgeous scenery just added to the already wonderful experience of being in such a lovely country.
I was sluggish getting ready before heading on the approximately twenty-five minute walk from the apartment I was staying in to the Shin-Urayasu Train Station. It was a nice walk, again filled with relative quiet, coupled with the daily, internal, and emotional battles of persuading myself to either stop, or not stop, at the 7-11 to get a Soy Rice Ball. Good lord, they were so delicious.
A similar battle would commence once I arrived at Atre Shin-Urayasu, a shopping mall attached to the train station. There was a small eatery there called Nihonbashiya Chobe that served these amazing, fish-shaped waffles filled with red bean or pastry cream. While I could often stave off the rice ball craving, I rarely succeeded against this incredible Japanese confection.
After failing in my attempt to order a Dirty Macha Latte in Japanese, indulging in a pastry-cream-filled fish waffle, and barely making my train, I was finally on my way. I was about to see the largest Buddha carved into the side of a mountain.
The train rides in Japan are practically worth the trip to the country themselves. The island itself is so small compared to where I grew up, that a three to four hour train ride from Tokyo would put you essentially anywhere you want to be. Reminiscent of the Pechanga Casino and Resort in Temecula, California, and how it’s “ninety minutes from wherever you are.” That would be my day today, only about a ninety minute train ride.
The trains in Japan are remarkably on-time. This is probably a common detail in most places that rely of public transit as the primary source of travel, but having spent the last fourteen plus years living in Los Angeles, I found it all the more impressive. The train was scheduled for 7:47 A.M. local time, and it arrived at 7:47 A.M. local time. Wild.
Coffee in hand, I ignored the quick and incredibly subtle stares from locals getting on or getting off their morning commuter train. No one eats or drinks in public in Tokyo. It’s something I noticed on my first few days there. Back home, I would eat basically a full three-course meal walking from my car to wherever I was heading next, but not there. No trash cans, no litter, just an immaculately clean city, and very, very quick glances at the very-obviously-a-tourist sipping his latte, and wiping a little pastry cream from his cheek with a napkin. No matter the shame I should have felt, I was comfortably sitting in a cushioned seat, aboard the train taking to me to my giant, granite Buddha.
I switched trains once, and arrived around 9:45 A.M. I had never been to this town, so I rushed off of the train at Hota Station, eager to experience a new place. The town was small, like a lot of the towns outside of the bustling metropolis of Tokyo proper. People innocently, and endearingly stared at me as I made my way out of the station, and into the town.
The plan was as clear as it was confusing: Arrive at Hota Station, walk to the temple to see Nihon-ji Daibutsu, the take the “sky buckets” down the backside of the mountain to Hama-Kanaya Station and catch the last train home. It was only now I realized the main flaw of my plan…
I do not speak Japanese, I do not have cell service, I do not know where I am, and I do not know how to get to where I am going.
Nevertheless, I was here. And I was going to see this Buddha. With my feet on the ground, I headed for the mountain.
From the looks of it, it seemed to be a fairly straight shot to the entrance of the temple. From there, I knew I could take the path through the temple that led ultimately to the Buddha carved into the stone of the mountain. I walked for about twenty-seven minutes before I realized I was lost. Waist deep in green grass, and the mountain at my side. I didn’t know where I was, but I didn’t have any option but to keep walking, and hope Iwas heading in the right direction.
Admiring the truly gorgeous scenery, I noticed an older woman walk out of a small building with a basket in hand. She walked from the doorway to a string of clothes blowing in the wind. She made it to the drying garments before she realized I was walking nearby. Perplexed, she looked at me, and after a moment of confusion, she waved. I smiled and waved back, and then I realized I was walking through her backyard.
I was definitely lost.
I pushed through my slowly bubbling anxiety, and kept walking. I had no idea this feeling would return in full force just a few hours from now.
I finally, but by the grace of Japan’s God made it to my destination: the entrance of the Nihon-ji Temple. It was beautiful, as I fully expected, and quiet, as I also expected. Almost instantly upon walking into the temple I was met with my first choice of the day. Two hiking paths ascending up the same side of the mountain. With no recommendations from my friends, and no real understanding of the implications of this immediate choice, I chose the path on the right. As it turns out, right was the wrong choice.
The first of this particular temple’s two paths to the top was one of beautiful scenic hiking, and the second, one of constant, tiny stairs. I’ll let you assume correctly which path I had chosen.
The stairs. All seven-hundred, eighty-nine million, four-hundred and seventy thousand of them. Or something like that.
Admittedly, the path was beautiful, despite being covered in my own sweat. With periodic encounters with many of the 1,500 Arhat, and plenty of Edo-era quarry ruins along the way, it was difficult to complain. Then I heard it.
A long, faint beeping noise. Like a sound test a baby takes to make sure their ears are working. In the distance, I heard a faint, high-pitched tone drone out. Then, as mysteriously as it appeared, it was gone.
Now, I was acutely aware that my plans were vague at best, but I felt my friends would have warned me about some sort of imminent danger involving the faint lull of a bell in the distance. Putting my ability to determine context clues in action, I looked around at the few people near me. An older man sat on a small bench, overlooking the valley we had all started in. A young mother laughed and held the hands of her son taking what was probably some of his first steps. Another man adjusted the focus on his SLR lens, before looking through the view finder and snapping some photographs. No one reacted to the sound. No one even gestured that they had heard it at all.
“Oh, well,” I shrugged, “moving on.” I continued my ascent to the top.
I hiked up the tiny steps for another forty minutes or so, before reaching a flat landing. Delicately drenched because I was slightly out of shape, I stopped for a moment to catch my breath. I had finally made it to my Buddha.
Nihon-ji Daibutsu. The Largest Buddha Carved Into the Side of a Mountain.
It was everything I wanted it to be, and more. Surrounded by green trees, and blue skies, There my Buddha sat. Over one-hundred feet of solid, carved granite. It felt massive. I walked up the landing towards the base of the Daibutsu, or “giant buddha,” and stared up in awe. I learned that as a healing Buddha, he held in his hands a small bowl of medicine, and if you had the opportunity to bathe in the brilliant emerald within it, your sickness would be cured.
The small courtyard I stood in was incredible, too. Small benches lined the area, covered in beautiful Wisterias. It was a perfect moment, and one I haven’t forgotten.
Another aspect of this moment I haven’t forgotten was hearing that tone again. Again, barely audible in the distance, the faint, dull, elongated beep. I looked around at people around me. No one cared. The old man still deep in his existential awareness, the young mother still giggled with her baby, and the other man still tightened his focus. For the second time, no one reacted.
I sat for a moment, and really tried to soak in the beauty of this place. The wind brushed against my cheek, the trees swaying far above me, and the Nihon-ji Daibutsu undisturbed by it all. A living representation of stillness, awareness, and true enlightenment. It was a beautiful reminder to be there, present in the moment with my giant Buddha. It was perfect.
After about fifteen minutes or so of true peace, I decided it was time to head the rest of the distance up the mountain to where I could catch a sky bucket down the other side of the mountain to the train station. Ideally, I’d get to the Hama-Kayana station just in time to catch the last train home. I packed up my Hydroflask in my small backpack, and started making my way up. Far fewer steps this time, but I still managed to make myself just sweaty enough to feel uncomfortable. The thought of a brilliantly hot shower awaiting me back at my apartment flashed through my mind, and a smile crossed my face. Instead of daydreaming of the steam clouding the bathroom mirror, I wish I would have noticed that no one else from the Daibutsu courtyard was making their way up the mountain further, and the more steps I ascending, the more alone I was on this mountain.
I finally made it the rest of the way towards the top, and I saw the small ski lift landing where I could purchase a ticket for the rope rail down. It was only then that I decided to notice that I was alone. Perplexed, I looked around, and finally realized that I was completely alone. There were so many people before… where is everyone? I thought.
I anxiously, and slowly walked over towards the sky bucket stand, like I was expecting a monster to burst out of the box office at any moment. No monster… no anything. Examining the stand a little closer, I realized there wasn’t anyone inside either. The box office window was closed, the small lobby was empty, and the ropes weren’t even…
Oh shit, I thought. The ropes weren’t moving.
If the ropes weren’t moving, that meant there were no sky buckets moving, and if there were no sky buckets moving, that meant…
Oh no.
A slight panic boiled up from my toes to my brain.
The sky buckets were closed.
No, no, no, no, no, this can’t be happening. I had timed out my entire day to be down to the minute, with only about a twenty-five minute cushion that had been erased by my backyard intrusion. Think, Trey, think.
Then it hit me.
The bell.
That faint, dull, electronic bell had been warning me. It had been warning me that this freaking part of the temple was closing. Me, taking my sweet time trying to be present, completely missed the message. I literally missed the bell. There has to be another option.
At just about the time I had that thought, I saw one of the strangest things I’ve ever seen. Out of nowhere, a small group of cats began walking past me toward the door of a small, wooden shed near the box office. Like they had all just walked out of the Narnia wardrobe, and into my line of sight. Meowing like they had been trapped in a cave for the last six months, they couldn’t have cared that I was a panicked mess at all. Then, in an almost choreographed moved, they all began crowding around the worn, wooden door; their meows getting more and more desperate.
For a moment, my deep and genuine dread disappeared while I watched this clowder scream at the warped, splintered door. Each feline trying to outmatch the next’s volume.
I finally was able to snap myself out of the cat-trance, and let my brain’s glutamate do it’s job.
I just about ready to scream when I heard the old, rickety door creak open. A person! I thought. Thank god. The door slowly opened as the cats started going wild. Meows, and chaotic pacing, the felines were slowly losing their minds, a trait I very much had in common with them.
Unlike the cats, who couldn’t have cared any less that a clearly lost, distressed American was freaking out mere feet away from them, this short, old, chubby Japanese man noticed me right away. A small tin fell from his hand, and dry cat food exploded everywhere around his feet. He stared right at me, as the cats got their feast.
“Hi,” I nervously said. He just stared back, cats feeding beneath him. Shit, I thought. He doesn’t speak English. “Hi, uh — I — uh, shit, sorry.” Get it together, Trey. “I… uh…” Then I just pointed to the closed sky buckets box office. It was the only attempt to communicate I could muster, because my brain had basically forgotten that the majority of Japanese citizens speak more than just their native language, like most places on earth other than the country I originated in.
The man followed my hand gesture, his eyes making their way to the closed office. Then he slowly looked back to me, expression seemingly more confused than before.
“I need to get down to the train station,” I pantomimed, while slowly speaking out loud. “Down the mountain, in the flying bucket seats…” What are you talking about, Trey? I thought, embarrassed. After a moment of silence, I raised my hands in the air, and my shoulders to my ears, and finally said, “What do I do?”
The man processed my request, still not responding in any way. Then, in a moment of communicatory clarity, he shrugged, and pointed to the jungle.
What…
I again followed his extended arm, past his fingers, and straight to… the Japanese jungle.
From what I could gather, this man was suggesting I walk down the other side of the mountain.
The sky buckets were closed, that much was clear. So in this man’s defense, my two options were to either climb all the way back down the way I came, definitely missing the last train back to Tokyo, or to climb down the other side of the mountain, through the Japanese jungle, and pray the whole way that I catch the last train. Time was not on my side.
“Huh?” I said without even thinking. Surely, there was another way. “What?” I said again.
And then, in another moment of pure clarity, in perfect English, the man said, “Don’t worry. There’s a rope.”
And with those three words, I felt my world crumble. There’s a rope. I realized in that moment a few things. One, this man had assumed the personal responsibility to make sure these wild cats eat well; and two, this isn’t the first time he has told someone to climb down the mountain.
But with only about an hour to spare, I had to make a decision. I was going to climb down. After all, there was a rope.
The moment I turned, and walked towards the jungle, the man picked up his cat food tin, and went back to his regularly scheduled routine.
I crossed into the thick trees, and almost immediately regretted my decision. There was a thin, yellow rope crudely tied around a tree at the edge of the jungle, and it disappeared in the thick brush. I picked it up, and slowly took my first step.
The ground was wet, and slippery. The sound of the wind, and peace, were immediately replaced with distant birds, and tree branches creaking. If it weren’t the worst possible scenario, I imagine it would have been really beautiful. Big, beautiful green landscape, with no other human in sight. I wondered how many people have climbed down this path before me. Who was the first one to do it? Did they miss the buckets too? Or, was their decision intentional and leisurely. I took slow steps, careful not to fall in the mud, and really ruin my afternoon.
About what I assumed was roughly halfway down, I heard a sound that didn’t resemble the birds or the branches, so it caught my attention in a very real way. It wasn’t until that moment that realized I was by myself, hiking through the Japanese wilderness, and no one else in the world had any real knowledge of my location.
And I just heard a strange, unrecognizable sound.
Perfect.
With no other real option available, I continued my way down, slowly. I heard the noise again, and racked my brain trying to figure out what it was. It wasn’t until I saw the culprit that it clicked what was making it.
I walked past a tree, and came face to face with a Japanese Macaque. A snow monkey with thick, beige fur just munching away on some tree fruit. It’s cute, red face staring straight at me. My primate friend cocked it’s head to the right, and I swear to God, it raised it’s eyebrows, confused.
I could almost hear it think, “you… you aren’t supposed to be here.” No, no I’m not, little guy.
After the initial shock faded, and the humor of the moment passed, a vision blurred across my mind. A few nights before this trip, I saw the few friends that recommended this day trip to me. We were about 3 bottles of cabernet in, when Michael turned to me, and slurred, “You can’t look at em.”
“Huh?” I responded.
“The monkeys. Don’t look at ‘em. Don’t look ‘em in the eyes, they don’t like it. They’ll straight up attack you.”
Here I am, face to face and maybe four feet away from a monkey, making intensely contact. Breaking that exact rule in a big way.
I could feel the sweat dripping down my brow, and then my brain shouted at my feet to get moving, please, now, god. My feet finally listened, and I took a slow step forward. The sun was setting now, and the last thing I wanted to do was find myself lost in the wilderness, alone, and in the dark. I swallowed, and could feel my stomach in my throat.
I somehow managed to make it down the rest of the jungle terrain and through the small town at its base. The town was cute, and quiet, and I hurried through the streets to find the station. Exhausted, out of breath, and drenched in my own sweat, I stumbled my way through the ticketing machine, purchased my fare, and took a breath before the last train home arrived.
After all of that, I absolutely would go back and visit my giant Buddha. The largest buddha carved into the side of a mountain. My Nihon-ji Daibutsu.
THE END.
On my second trip to the incredible nation of Japan in the Spring of 2013, I tried to take full advantage of the time I had to explore the amazing landscape. From visiting the Kamakura daibutsu, or Great Buddha, of Kōtoku-in, the largest Buddha sitting criss-cross applesauce made of bronze in the Kanagawa Prefecture of Japan, to visiting Fukuoka Buddha, the largest Buddha lounging lazily on his side like he’s watching the Wendy Williams Show on a Tuesday afternoon, also made of bronze, at the Nanzo-in temple in the Fukuoka Prefecture of Japan.
Whether the Buddha was bronze and sitting criss-cross applesauce, or lounging about in a bathroom, mimosa in hand, one thing became certain: Japan loves it’s big, bronze, statues of Buddha.
At this point, after I had eaten and drunk my way through the majority of Tokyo, I found myself with another fairly full day free and with no agenda. Time to find another dope Buddha, I thought.
The general consensus, after receiving some very specific suggestions from some friends living in the city, was that I should visit the Daibutsu at the Nihon-ji Temple in the city of Kyonan, in the Chiba Prefecture of Japan. Or, as it was described to me, and I’m not joking:
Nihon-ji Daibutsu: The Largest Buddha Carved Into the Side of a Mountain.
While the temple itself was founded around the year 725 AD, this particular Daibutsu was carved into the mountain rock around 1774 AD by Guden, the 9th Hōsō priest of Nihon-ji. Or so my quick Google search beforehand informed me. Known for its massive size, and relatively unaccessible hike, the large Buddha is also accompanied by 1,553 rakan Arhat stone statues that were added to the temple around roughly the same time period. Apparently, it was quite the sight to see. And I was going to see it.
I woke up fairly early that morning, to make sure I gave myself plenty of time to get there, see the sight, and get back before the last train of the day. I assumed this would be roughly a 6-8 hour day of hiking, sight-seeing, and sitting in a quiet, Japanese temple; days I had come to love and truly look forward to. The silence was always perfect, and the gorgeous scenery just added to the already wonderful experience of being in such a lovely country.
I was sluggish getting ready before heading on the approximately twenty-five minute walk from the apartment I was staying in to the Shin-Urayasu Train Station. It was a nice walk, again filled with relative quiet, coupled with the daily, internal, and emotional battles of persuading myself to either stop, or not stop, at the 7-11 to get a Soy Rice Ball. Good lord, they were so delicious.
A similar battle would commence once I arrived at Atre Shin-Urayasu, a shopping mall attached to the train station. There was a small eatery there called Nihonbashiya Chobe that served these amazing, fish-shaped waffles filled with red bean or pastry cream. While I could often stave off the rice ball craving, I rarely succeeded against this incredible Japanese confection.
After failing in my attempt to order a Dirty Macha Latte in Japanese, indulging in a pastry-cream-filled fish waffle, and barely making my train, I was finally on my way. I was about to see the largest Buddha carved into the side of a mountain.
The train rides in Japan are practically worth the trip to the country themselves. The island itself is so small compared to where I grew up, that a three to four hour train ride from Tokyo would put you essentially anywhere you want to be. Reminiscent of the Pechanga Casino and Resort in Temecula, California, and how it’s “ninety minutes from wherever you are.” That would be my day today, only about a ninety minute train ride.
The trains in Japan are remarkably on-time. This is probably a common detail in most places that rely of public transit as the primary source of travel, but having spent the last fourteen plus years living in Los Angeles, I found it all the more impressive. The train was scheduled for 7:47 A.M. local time, and it arrived at 7:47 A.M. local time. Wild.
Coffee in hand, I ignored the quick and incredibly subtle stares from locals getting on or getting off their morning commuter train. No one eats or drinks in public in Tokyo. It’s something I noticed on my first few days there. Back home, I would eat basically a full three-course meal walking from my car to wherever I was heading next, but not there. No trash cans, no litter, just an immaculately clean city, and very, very quick glances at the very-obviously-a-tourist sipping his latte, and wiping a little pastry cream from his cheek with a napkin. No matter the shame I should have felt, I was comfortably sitting in a cushioned seat, aboard the train taking to me to my giant, granite Buddha.
I switched trains once, and arrived around 9:45 A.M. I had never been to this town, so I rushed off of the train at Hota Station, eager to experience a new place. The town was small, like a lot of the towns outside of the bustling metropolis of Tokyo proper. People innocently, and endearingly stared at me as I made my way out of the station, and into the town.
The plan was as clear as it was confusing: Arrive at Hota Station, walk to the temple to see Nihon-ji Daibutsu, the take the “sky buckets” down the backside of the mountain to Hama-Kanaya Station and catch the last train home. It was only now I realized the main flaw of my plan…
I do not speak Japanese, I do not have cell service, I do not know where I am, and I do not know how to get to where I am going.
Nevertheless, I was here. And I was going to see this Buddha. With my feet on the ground, I headed for the mountain.
From the looks of it, it seemed to be a fairly straight shot to the entrance of the temple. From there, I knew I could take the path through the temple that led ultimately to the Buddha carved into the stone of the mountain. I walked for about twenty-seven minutes before I realized I was lost. Waist deep in green grass, and the mountain at my side. I didn’t know where I was, but I didn’t have any option but to keep walking, and hope Iwas heading in the right direction.
Admiring the truly gorgeous scenery, I noticed an older woman walk out of a small building with a basket in hand. She walked from the doorway to a string of clothes blowing in the wind. She made it to the drying garments before she realized I was walking nearby. Perplexed, she looked at me, and after a moment of confusion, she waved. I smiled and waved back, and then I realized I was walking through her backyard.
I was definitely lost.
I pushed through my slowly bubbling anxiety, and kept walking. I had no idea this feeling would return in full force just a few hours from now.
I finally, but by the grace of Japan’s God made it to my destination: the entrance of the Nihon-ji Temple. It was beautiful, as I fully expected, and quiet, as I also expected. Almost instantly upon walking into the temple I was met with my first choice of the day. Two hiking paths ascending up the same side of the mountain. With no recommendations from my friends, and no real understanding of the implications of this immediate choice, I chose the path on the right. As it turns out, right was the wrong choice.
The first of this particular temple’s two paths to the top was one of beautiful scenic hiking, and the second, one of constant, tiny stairs. I’ll let you assume correctly which path I had chosen.
The stairs. All seven-hundred, eighty-nine million, four-hundred and seventy thousand of them. Or something like that.
Admittedly, the path was beautiful, despite being covered in my own sweat. With periodic encounters with many of the 1,500 Arhat, and plenty of Edo-era quarry ruins along the way, it was difficult to complain. Then I heard it.
A long, faint beeping noise. Like a sound test a baby takes to make sure their ears are working. In the distance, I heard a faint, high-pitched tone drone out. Then, as mysteriously as it appeared, it was gone.
Now, I was acutely aware that my plans were vague at best, but I felt my friends would have warned me about some sort of imminent danger involving the faint lull of a bell in the distance. Putting my ability to determine context clues in action, I looked around at the few people near me. An older man sat on a small bench, overlooking the valley we had all started in. A young mother laughed and held the hands of her son taking what was probably some of his first steps. Another man adjusted the focus on his SLR lens, before looking through the view finder and snapping some photographs. No one reacted to the sound. No one even gestured that they had heard it at all.
“Oh, well,” I shrugged, “moving on.” I continued my ascent to the top.
I hiked up the tiny steps for another forty minutes or so, before reaching a flat landing. Delicately drenched because I was slightly out of shape, I stopped for a moment to catch my breath. I had finally made it to my Buddha.
Nihon-ji Daibutsu. The Largest Buddha Carved Into the Side of a Mountain.
It was everything I wanted it to be, and more. Surrounded by green trees, and blue skies, There my Buddha sat. Over one-hundred feet of solid, carved granite. It felt massive. I walked up the landing towards the base of the Daibutsu, or “giant buddha,” and stared up in awe. I learned that as a healing Buddha, he held in his hands a small bowl of medicine, and if you had the opportunity to bathe in the brilliant emerald within it, your sickness would be cured.
The small courtyard I stood in was incredible, too. Small benches lined the area, covered in beautiful Wisterias. It was a perfect moment, and one I haven’t forgotten.
Another aspect of this moment I haven’t forgotten was hearing that tone again. Again, barely audible in the distance, the faint, dull, elongated beep. I looked around at people around me. No one cared. The old man still deep in his existential awareness, the young mother still giggled with her baby, and the other man still tightened his focus. For the second time, no one reacted.
I sat for a moment, and really tried to soak in the beauty of this place. The wind brushed against my cheek, the trees swaying far above me, and the Nihon-ji Daibutsu undisturbed by it all. A living representation of stillness, awareness, and true enlightenment. It was a beautiful reminder to be there, present in the moment with my giant Buddha. It was perfect.
After about fifteen minutes or so of true peace, I decided it was time to head the rest of the distance up the mountain to where I could catch a sky bucket down the other side of the mountain to the train station. Ideally, I’d get to the Hama-Kayana station just in time to catch the last train home. I packed up my Hydroflask in my small backpack, and started making my way up. Far fewer steps this time, but I still managed to make myself just sweaty enough to feel uncomfortable. The thought of a brilliantly hot shower awaiting me back at my apartment flashed through my mind, and a smile crossed my face. Instead of daydreaming of the steam clouding the bathroom mirror, I wish I would have noticed that no one else from the Daibutsu courtyard was making their way up the mountain further, and the more steps I ascending, the more alone I was on this mountain.
I finally made it the rest of the way towards the top, and I saw the small ski lift landing where I could purchase a ticket for the rope rail down. It was only then that I decided to notice that I was alone. Perplexed, I looked around, and finally realized that I was completely alone. There were so many people before… where is everyone? I thought.
I anxiously, and slowly walked over towards the sky bucket stand, like I was expecting a monster to burst out of the box office at any moment. No monster… no anything. Examining the stand a little closer, I realized there wasn’t anyone inside either. The box office window was closed, the small lobby was empty, and the ropes weren’t even…
Oh shit, I thought. The ropes weren’t moving.
If the ropes weren’t moving, that meant there were no sky buckets moving, and if there were no sky buckets moving, that meant…
Oh no.
A slight panic boiled up from my toes to my brain.
The sky buckets were closed.
No, no, no, no, no, this can’t be happening. I had timed out my entire day to be down to the minute, with only about a twenty-five minute cushion that had been erased by my backyard intrusion. Think, Trey, think.
Then it hit me.
The bell.
That faint, dull, electronic bell had been warning me. It had been warning me that this freaking part of the temple was closing. Me, taking my sweet time trying to be present, completely missed the message. I literally missed the bell. There has to be another option.
At just about the time I had that thought, I saw one of the strangest things I’ve ever seen. Out of nowhere, a small group of cats began walking past me toward the door of a small, wooden shed near the box office. Like they had all just walked out of the Narnia wardrobe, and into my line of sight. Meowing like they had been trapped in a cave for the last six months, they couldn’t have cared that I was a panicked mess at all. Then, in an almost choreographed moved, they all began crowding around the worn, wooden door; their meows getting more and more desperate.
For a moment, my deep and genuine dread disappeared while I watched this clowder scream at the warped, splintered door. Each feline trying to outmatch the next’s volume.
I finally was able to snap myself out of the cat-trance, and let my brain’s glutamate do it’s job.
I just about ready to scream when I heard the old, rickety door creak open. A person! I thought. Thank god. The door slowly opened as the cats started going wild. Meows, and chaotic pacing, the felines were slowly losing their minds, a trait I very much had in common with them.
Unlike the cats, who couldn’t have cared any less that a clearly lost, distressed American was freaking out mere feet away from them, this short, old, chubby Japanese man noticed me right away. A small tin fell from his hand, and dry cat food exploded everywhere around his feet. He stared right at me, as the cats got their feast.
“Hi,” I nervously said. He just stared back, cats feeding beneath him. Shit, I thought. He doesn’t speak English. “Hi, uh — I — uh, shit, sorry.” Get it together, Trey. “I… uh…” Then I just pointed to the closed sky buckets box office. It was the only attempt to communicate I could muster, because my brain had basically forgotten that the majority of Japanese citizens speak more than just their native language, like most places on earth other than the country I originated in.
The man followed my hand gesture, his eyes making their way to the closed office. Then he slowly looked back to me, expression seemingly more confused than before.
“I need to get down to the train station,” I pantomimed, while slowly speaking out loud. “Down the mountain, in the flying bucket seats…” What are you talking about, Trey? I thought, embarrassed. After a moment of silence, I raised my hands in the air, and my shoulders to my ears, and finally said, “What do I do?”
The man processed my request, still not responding in any way. Then, in a moment of communicatory clarity, he shrugged, and pointed to the jungle.
What…
I again followed his extended arm, past his fingers, and straight to… the Japanese jungle.
From what I could gather, this man was suggesting I walk down the other side of the mountain.
The sky buckets were closed, that much was clear. So in this man’s defense, my two options were to either climb all the way back down the way I came, definitely missing the last train back to Tokyo, or to climb down the other side of the mountain, through the Japanese jungle, and pray the whole way that I catch the last train. Time was not on my side.
“Huh?” I said without even thinking. Surely, there was another way. “What?” I said again.
And then, in another moment of pure clarity, in perfect English, the man said, “Don’t worry. There’s a rope.”
And with those three words, I felt my world crumble. There’s a rope. I realized in that moment a few things. One, this man had assumed the personal responsibility to make sure these wild cats eat well; and two, this isn’t the first time he has told someone to climb down the mountain.
But with only about an hour to spare, I had to make a decision. I was going to climb down. After all, there was a rope.
The moment I turned, and walked towards the jungle, the man picked up his cat food tin, and went back to his regularly scheduled routine.
I crossed into the thick trees, and almost immediately regretted my decision. There was a thin, yellow rope crudely tied around a tree at the edge of the jungle, and it disappeared in the thick brush. I picked it up, and slowly took my first step.
The ground was wet, and slippery. The sound of the wind, and peace, were immediately replaced with distant birds, and tree branches creaking. If it weren’t the worst possible scenario, I imagine it would have been really beautiful. Big, beautiful green landscape, with no other human in sight. I wondered how many people have climbed down this path before me. Who was the first one to do it? Did they miss the buckets too? Or, was their decision intentional and leisurely. I took slow steps, careful not to fall in the mud, and really ruin my afternoon.
About what I assumed was roughly halfway down, I heard a sound that didn’t resemble the birds or the branches, so it caught my attention in a very real way. It wasn’t until that moment that realized I was by myself, hiking through the Japanese wilderness, and no one else in the world had any real knowledge of my location.
And I just heard a strange, unrecognizable sound.
Perfect.
With no other real option available, I continued my way down, slowly. I heard the noise again, and racked my brain trying to figure out what it was. It wasn’t until I saw the culprit that it clicked what was making it.
I walked past a tree, and came face to face with a Japanese Macaque. A snow monkey with thick, beige fur just munching away on some tree fruit. It’s cute, red face staring straight at me. My primate friend cocked it’s head to the right, and I swear to God, it raised it’s eyebrows, confused.
I could almost hear it think, “you… you aren’t supposed to be here.” No, no I’m not, little guy.
After the initial shock faded, and the humor of the moment passed, a vision blurred across my mind. A few nights before this trip, I saw the few friends that recommended this day trip to me. We were about 3 bottles of cabernet in, when Michael turned to me, and slurred, “You can’t look at em.”
“Huh?” I responded.
“The monkeys. Don’t look at ‘em. Don’t look ‘em in the eyes, they don’t like it. They’ll straight up attack you.”
Here I am, face to face and maybe four feet away from a monkey, making intensely contact. Breaking that exact rule in a big way.
I could feel the sweat dripping down my brow, and then my brain shouted at my feet to get moving, please, now, god. My feet finally listened, and I took a slow step forward. The sun was setting now, and the last thing I wanted to do was find myself lost in the wilderness, alone, and in the dark. I swallowed, and could feel my stomach in my throat.
I somehow managed to make it down the rest of the jungle terrain and through the small town at its base. The town was cute, and quiet, and I hurried through the streets to find the station. Exhausted, out of breath, and drenched in my own sweat, I stumbled my way through the ticketing machine, purchased my fare, and took a breath before the last train home arrived.
After all of that, I absolutely would go back and visit my giant Buddha. The largest buddha carved into the side of a mountain. My Nihon-ji Daibutsu.
THE END.