This article is produced by National Geographic Traveler (United Kingdom).
In the misty mid-morning sun, dappled light dances across the damp forest floor as the tops of lanky black pines sway gently in the breeze. A fresh hint of vanilla drifts in and an elusive Japanese warbler lets out its nasal breeding call from above just as my guide Hatsumi Sato calls out, “Komorebi!”
“Komorebi!” she repeats with delight, removing her traditional conical hat as we tiptoe across the puddled path. “It’s a Japanese saying for the light and shadows that shine through the trees when the sun is low,” she explains, visibly moved by the circumstances.
I’m hiking part of the legendary Kumano Kodo, a network of six pilgrimage routes that zigzag across the mountainous Kii Peninsula in southern Honshu. It’s one of two pilgrimage routes designated a UNESCO World Heritage Site—the other is Spain’s Camino de Santiago—and this year marks the 20th anniversary of its inscription. The well-trodden forest trails have remained largely unchanged for more than 1,000 years.
“This is the only sacred place in the world where two religions coexist in perfect harmony,” Hatsumi, a veteran Kumano Kodo presenter, claims as she pauses on the narrow forest path to unroll a comically large map. She excitedly points to the end of the Kumano Nakahechi trail on the map, some 36 miles away. “The Shinto shrine Kumano Nachi Taisha is just up ahead, next to the famous three-story red pagoda at the Buddhist temple Seiganto-ji. Where else would this happen?”
More than 1,200 years of Shinto and Buddhist history are documented in these mountains — which is partly why the Kumano Kodo has been given World Heritage status. We’ll walk a section of the most popular trail, the Nakahechi, which should take about three days to complete. It includes the three main shrines — Kumano Hongu Taisha, Kumano Hayatama Taisha and Kumano Nachi Taisha — collectively known as Kumano Sanzan.
Despite the trail’s popularity, that morning we had just reached the trailhead, a shrine called Hosshinmon-oji, whose name translates as “gateway for spiritual awakening.” It’s one of 99 smaller shrines along the Kumano Kodo that are said to house the offspring of the Kumano gods—Shinto and Buddhist spirits embodied in natural elements like waterfalls and trees—and passing through its rustic wooden torii gate is considered a spiritual rebirth. I walked through and bowed, before performing a simple process of worship at the small red shrine in front of me. As Hatsumi taught me: bow slightly, ring the bell outside the shrine and bow again, bow deeply twice more, clap your hands slowly, and bow once more. “You have followed in the footsteps of many before you, including the current emperor,” Hatsumi said at the time. Did I feel reborn? Not really, but there was time.
Further along the trail, we pass four miles of forest and find farming villages with traditional minka houses — Japanese wooden farmhouses — flanked by rolling hills of orchards, herb gardens and tea plantations. To the north are the Kii Mountains, a jagged, wooded range that separates us from the sacred Buddhist community of Koyasan, a UNESCO World Heritage site with Kumano.
My walk along the path has aggravated some pain in my lower back, so Hatsumi is happy to stop in front of Koshi-ita Jizo—one of many small stone statues along the path depicting the Buddhist figure Jizo, often shrouded in moss and wearing small red woolen caps and scarves. “Jizo are the guardian deities of children and weary travelers. They heal pilgrims and are made of stone to foster a closer connection to the earth,” she explains, pointing to a small bundle of coins left as a donation at the statue’s feet. Koshi-ita Jizo is said to cure hip and back pain, so I place a five-yen coin under his body before we continue.
Finally, we arrive at Kumano Hongu Taisha, along with a dozen other weary pilgrims with walking sticks and maps. They gather beside an ancient cedar tree with a blanket of scribbled leaves at its base. “This is known as the postcard tree,” Hatsumi says, rummaging through her bag.
She tells me that the first pilgrims here would write prayers on leaves and let them decompose, as another connection to the earth. Over time, the story inspired other hikers to leave their own natural “postcards.” Now it’s my turn, Hatsumi says, handing me a cocktail stick to stencil a message on a thick, waxy leaf that I pluck from the forest floor before placing it with the others. My backache fades as we both wash our hands and mouths to enter the shrine. Maybe I’ll be reborn after all.
Published in the September 2024 issue of National Geographic Traveler (United Kingdom).
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