The ancient Kumano Kodo pilgrimage trail winds through the spiritual heart of Japan’s Kii Peninsula, a landscape of towering cedars, hidden shrines, and mist-shrouded mountains. For over a thousand years, pilgrims—from emperors to commoners—have walked these paths at a reverent pace, seeking purification and enlightenment at the three Grand Shrines of Kumano.
But I had a different kind of pilgrimage in mind. As an experienced ultramarathon runner, short on time but hungry for a deep connection, I wanted to experience its essence in a single, intense push: a 40-kilometer journey through the day, the night, and a brewing typhoon.
Understanding the Path: A Web of Sacred Routes
To appreciate the journey, one must first understand the map. The Kumano Kodo isn’t one trail, but a network. While many ancient tributaries have faded, several core routes remain, each with its own character:
- The Nakahechi (“Imperial Route”): The main artery, used by the Imperial family on their pilgrimages from Kyoto. This was my chosen path, linking Takijiri-oji to the grand shrine at Hongu.
- The Kohechi: A challenging mountain path connecting the Buddhist sanctuary of Koyasan to the Kumano region.
- The Ohechi & Iseji: Coastal routes linking the peninsula from the west and east, the latter gaining fame by connecting the nation’s most sacred Shinto shrine, Ise-Jingu, to the Kumano Sanzan.
My plan felt audacious, even strange.
Rushing through a place of sacred slowness?
But then I thought of the Yamabushi—the mountain ascetics of Shugendo who have used these same mountains as their training ground for centuries.
They seek enlightenment not through quiet contemplation alone, but through extreme physical and mental challenge, finding power by meditating under freezing waterfalls.
In its own way, a fast-paced, overnight ultra-hike felt like a modern nod to that very spirit.
The Long Road to the Trailhead
The pilgrimage began long before the first step on the trail. My day started at 5 am in the concrete canyons of Tokyo, a blur of megalopolis morning, a Shinkansen ride to Osaka, a transfer to the Kuroshio local express tracing the Kii Peninsula, and finally, a bus from Tanabe City.
At 1 pm, eight hours after leaving my hotel room in Tokyo, I finally arrived at Takijiri.
At the Kumano Kodo Kan (Information Center), I swapped city clothes for trail gear, stamped the first entry into my pilgrim passbook at the Takijiri-oji shrine—the symbolic gateway between the secular world and the sacred mountains—and began to climb.
A Descent into Darkness
The trail wasted no time, ascending immediately from behind the shrine in a tangle of stone steps, gnarled roots, and autumn leaves. The afternoon was sunny and balmy, perfect hiking weather.
I quickly fell into a rhythm, moving past a succession of oji—subsidiary shrines that act as waypoints and rest stops for pilgrims.
I passed the Takahara Shrine, and the Gyuba-doji statue, a touching carving of one of the first emperors to make the pilgrimage resting with his horse and bull.
Of course, I also managed to miss the main trail once, scrambling back up a slope to find my way, guided by my GPS watch.
Dusk found me descending into the valley town of Chikatsuyu, a common overnight stop for most hikers.
As I arrived, a temple bell began to toll from an unseen source, its deep tones echoing through the small town. Soon after, music drifted from a public announcement system—a surreal and beautiful entry into the night. I crossed a bridge and found the Chikatsuyu-oji, relieved I hadn’t missed it in the fading light.
Through the Night and the Rain
From Chikatsuyu, the character of the journey transformed. As I re-entered the forest, the darkness became absolute. My world shrank to the small circle of light cast by my headlamp.
This is where the trail’s spirituality revealed itself in a new way. The grand shrines are impressive, but the soul of the Kumano Kodo lives in the small, humble markers of faith I passed in the night.
Roadside altars, stone markers for forgotten oji sites, and small shrines, all clearly cared for, spoke to a living, breathing spirituality woven into the very fabric of the landscape.
Progress became my mantra. Finding each oji, sometimes slightly off the main trail, was a small victory against the enclosing dark.
The path led me past cemeteries and the ruins of old settlements, the sound of a barely seen river a longtime companion. The darkness hid the world but revealed the path, each step a deliberate, focused act.
The Shugendo experience—finding insight through discomfort—became intensely real when a drizzle began to fall.
Just as I reached a detour around a landslide, the light rain intensified.
It accompanied me the rest of the way until I found a spot near a small waterfall, where I finally unrolled my bivouac sack for a few hours of damp, fitful sleep on the forest floor, the rush of water filling the darkness.
Dawn, Deluge, and Arrival
I awoke to what was no longer a drizzle, but a full-blown rainstorm. As it turned out, a typhoon was moving in. Packing my wet gear, I pushed on into a world of rain, fog, and darkness.
Navigating became a strange challenge. A weak light from my headlamp could barely penetrate the gloom; a strong light simply reflected off the millions of raindrops, creating a blinding glare. The trail itself was now a shallow stream in places.
But soon, landmarks appeared out of the mist. First, Hosshinmon-oji, the “gate of the awakening of the mind,” marking the outermost entrance to Kumano Hongu Taisha’s sacred precincts.
Then Mizunomi-oji, with its spring where pilgrims would purify themselves.
As I reached Fushiogami-oji, “the praying-in-reverence pass,” the day finally began to break. It wasn’t a sunrise, but a slow, grey dilution of the darkness.
From here, pilgrims would catch their first glimpse of the Grand Shrine in the valley below and fall to their knees in prayer. For me, there was only a swirling sea of fog and rain, a mystical, otherworldly beauty all its own.
With the path now clearer in the dawn light, the final kilometers passed quickly.
And then, suddenly, I was there. I walked through the great torii gate and stood before Kumano Hongu Taisha. I had arrived just as the priests were opening for the day. I paid my respects, and with a sense of profound accomplishment, pressed the final stamp into my passbook.
My original plan was to continue on the next leg to Nachi Taisha. But as I debated, the typhoon unleashed a torrential downpour. Huddled under a bus stop, I saw the next bus back to Tanabe was due in ten minutes. Sometimes, you have to recognize a sign. The mountain had given me the experience I asked for, and now it was telling me the journey was complete.
Reflections on a Fast-Paced Pilgrimage
Rushing a sacred path may seem like a contradiction. But my fast-hike on the Kumano Kodo was one of the most deeply spiritual experiences of my life. By stripping away comfort and pushing my physical limits, I felt I connected with the trail in a primal way. The solitude, the darkness, the rain—these weren’t obstacles; they were the entire point. They forced a state of absolute presence. There was no room for distraction, only for the next step, the next breath, the next marker in the dark.
It was a journey that taught me that pilgrimage isn’t about following a set of rules. It’s about finding your own unique way to connect with a place’s history, power, and spirit. Whether you take two weeks or one long night, the Kumano Kodo meets you where you are. And as I stood, soaked and exhausted, before the majestic Kumano Hongu Taisha, I felt a deep sense of gratitude. I had come seeking a challenge and left with a quiet sense of peace.
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