Miyajima, a small island just off the coast of Hiroshima, is said to be one of the three most scenic spots in Japan. (The author wonders who makes such lists, but they are there regardless.) Much as I was skeptical of this designation, Miyajima did end up living up to its reputation, and I considered myself lucky to live close enough to make the occasional visit. In all, I was able to make three trips over the course of the year, and to bring all of my overseas visitors there fora taste of the breathtaking beauty of Japan's varied landscape.
While it was not what impressed me most, Miyajima is famous for the complex of shrines that ends in a torii (the red gate leading up to a Japanese shrine) in the harbor, inviting visitors from the sea to approach the island. That is not to say that I would try to deny how stunning that huge torii is, tall and red against the water, with the mountains behind it. The shape of the island is that of tall, craggy mountains, and they provide an amazing backdrop of misty green for the red-painted shrines and pagodas that make up its bustling tourist village. If one ignores the crowds of photo-snapping tourists and the numerous shops that cater to them with prepackaged souvenirs, the village can be truly enjoyable - walking along the beach with its blue-green water, feeding the herds of tame deer wandering about, and seeing the many places of cultural and historic significance that crowd the island.
After my first trip to Miyajima, where I had only seen the village with the mountains looming behind it, I came home satisfied but wondering why it was considered so significantly beautiful - was it the geography, or simply the stunning image of the torii in the water? It didn't seem quite as spectacular as one might expect from one of the three most beautiful places in Japan. Upon returning to the island in late January, though, its real beauty - at least for me - was revealed.
My companion and I had ventured, after quickly tiring of the crowds and the nosy deer, to take the ropeway that extended from the village nearly to the peak of the tallest point on the island, Mt. Mizen. We had heard of the spectacular views that one could enjoy from atop that mountain, and decided that we would rather try our luck on the mountain than spend all day elbowing our fellow tourists around the shrines.
We were not disappointed in our expectations for something better. Despite my enduring fear of heights, I suffered the lurching and swinging of the car as we ascended through the air, several meters above the treetops that thickly covered the mountainside; too beautiful was the sight of the island's coastline to ignore in favor of assuaging my fears. Looking down at the white sand and clear water of the little beaches poking out from the forest, I could almost imagine that we were on a tropical island, miles away from the snow-blanketed mountains of Hiroshima prefecture. We changed cars halfway up the mountain, feeling the wind whip past us as we began the final ascent. There, suspended terrifyingly in space over a deep valley, we caught our first glimpse of the Inland Sea.
Even more than the rocky peaks and the red-faced monkeys that made their home on them (and on the roof of the ropeway station), the sea was what made the whole journey completely worthwhile. There, at the base of Mt. Mizen's broken peak, was a breathless expanse of the dark blue Inland Sea stretching out into the distance. It was dotted with tiny pointed islands, most barely a kilometer in length; on a clear day, a sign advised, one could see all the way to Shikoku, the smallest major island of Japan.
Unable to even find the words to express what was before us, my companion and I spent an indeterminate amount of time simply taking in the scene. We walked back and forth over the boulders, the city of Hiroshima and its snowy mountains visible from one side, and the smooth sea with its little green islands on the other. We watched as fishing boats made their way to and from the city, leaving slow little wakes trailing behind. It was all nearly motionless, soundless, surreal.
Somehow, we managed to tear ourselves away from the scene and make the half-hour hike all the way to the top of Mt. Mizen. There, numerous Japanese hikers were opening their picnic lunches, some complete with radios and bunsen burners on which they heated up their soup. Unable to make the climb back down without some refreshment, we snacked on steaming udon noodles in the little stand at the mountaintop, happy for the opportunity for more undisturbed gazing at the unbelievable view.
We decided that we were brave enough to not need the ropeway on the descent, and shortly began the long hike back down the mountain. It did not involve quite the spectacular views as on the way up, but we were given the opportunity to see the island more personally. Yes, we took the opportunity to get ourselves lost a few times. The narrow trail and sparse, hand-painted signs pointing to ancient pilgrimage sites reminded us that for all of the cities and well-developed tourist attractions, much of Japan can seem like a time warp - wild, unexplored, utterly separate from modern civilization. With this thought in the back of our heads, we made an effort to take the least adventure-prone route down; one does not want to necessarily be separate from civilization for too long if there is a chance for a medical emergency or, in our case, getting hungry for a more substantial dinner.
Even without serious excursions off the marked path, we were still able to see much of traditional Japan and its religion on our walk. The path was littered with unmanned shrines and random groupings of Buddha statues, complete with little red bibs. We were in awe of the hundreds of tiny statues that dotted the crevice beneath a huge boulder, and the small and perfectly-constructed footbridge leading to an equally small shrine just across a little creek from the path. Moreover, even if there was no one present to whom we could attribute the offerings of food and drink before the Buddhas, and the cleanliness of the shrines, it was obvious that someone had been to these places recently. They were no forgotten examples of religious expression, but were living testament to the subtle but persistent place of traditional Japanese culture in modern life. As with all Japanese "wilderness" that I encountered, the mark of other human beings was never far, even if it appeared in such an understated way that it seemed the statues and buildings had sprouted straight from the earth itself.
Thus, even if the torii and shrines of Miyajima were not what kept me coming back to the island whenever I could think up an excuse, the rest of the island offered more than enough breathtaking beauty for one excursion. The only regret I had was not being more prepared for the walk down; the memory of my aching calves after four kilometers of stairs deterred me from hiking down on my next trip, and I wisely found room in my budget for the round-trip ticket on the ropeway rather than the one-way. I may have seen a unique and beautiful side of the island that most tourists never glimpse, but one grueling hike down that path was enough for me; I still wonder to this day at the determined pilgrims - all of them over 60 - that found the experience important enough to hike both up and down the mountain.