Posted by Lu Barnham on March 15, 2010 10:53 a.m.
I walked in the company of a cloud of red dragonflies. It was hard to keep from smiling as they hovered alongside me, reminding me of the beauty of the landscape and how far I had come. Kagawa, the final prefecture through which the pilgrimage passes, is known to be the easiest walk. Farmers worked in the fields with wide-brimmed sunhats and long-sleeved gloves to block out the sun. Often, they waved at me with a rake or a pair of shears in their hands, and I waved back, smiling—my days of aching feet were long gone.
As though to test my tired feet, the route to the 81st and 82nd temples climbed a mountain; the dark path that stretched between was little more than a tunnel of trees. I battled big spiders, gently pulling down the huge webs that had been spun across the path, much to their fury. The 82nd temple, Negoroji, was my favorite. The approaching autumn added a tinge of orange to the trees that surrounded it, and the lamp-lit corridors around the main hall contained hundreds of tiny statues of Kannon, the Goddess of mercy. Here more than ever, I appreciated the unique places the pilgrimage had brought me, knowing it was one of the most special experiences of my life.
It was in Shido town, in a small room overlooking the 87th temple, that I watched the sun set over the sea and realized exactly how tired I was. If all went well, I would reach the 88th temple the next day. Then, I would walk back to temple 1, completing my circuit. I couldn’t believe I had almost made it. My soul felt alive and nurtured, but my body was ready to stop and relax. In true pilgrimage style, the walk to the 88th and final temple was a serious challenge. It was necessary to climb Mount Nyotai-san, and for the first time I was struggling up rocks, uncertain I was even on an actual path. An hour earlier, I had disturbed a group of Macaque monkeys, and I hadn’t seen another pilgrim for half a day. When I heard the sound of the temple bell below me in the valley, my heart jumped. Knowing I had made it was a sensation of happiness and an instant nostalgia for what had passed.
I slept at a small inn and was up at dawn the next day to walk the full 40km back to temple 1 and complete my journey. My energy knew no bounds on this final day. I drank in every little detail of the world around me, not wanting to miss a thing: a long black snake in a field, a farmer teaching his son to drive a tractor, an advert for mosquito coils nailed to the wooden slat wall of an old house, the sound of beating drums from within a hall, a row of shoes lined neatly outside a house porch. I was going to miss Japan so much. I reached Ryozenji (temple 1) at dusk, and the head priest congratulated me. A soft rain fell as I paid my respects for the final time, and the temple lanterns began to glow against the approaching night.
Catching a train was the oddest experience of my life. For 51 days, I had gotten around using only my poor old feet. As the train pulled out of tiny Bando station, rocking along the rails to Tokushima city, I sat in a state of pure amazement for the full journey. It was dusk and neon lights flashed by the window. I felt like singing karaoke. I needed to celebrate, yet here I was, thousands of miles away from home, alone in a strange city. I swear there has never been a more enthusiastic rendition of “Eye of the Tiger” than the one I sang that night.
Before leaving Japan, I wanted to let the saint Kobo Daishi know that I had completed the pilgrimage, and to pay my respects to him one last time. Back on Mount Koya, among the cedars and the scent of incense, I remembered how nervous I had felt when I had arrived there before embarking on the pilgrimage. I had wondered if I could really complete such a journey, and if any of these unfamiliar surroundings—statues, lanterns, temples—or the austere-looking people in religious attire could ever feel accessible. It was an incredibly warming feeling to know that, with a little bit of faith and persistence, they had all become an unforgettable part of my life, and that what had seemed impossible was, in fact, possible.