It’s September, and all over the neighborhood the spider lilies are blooming. I’m not sure to say how I feel about them but to say that they make me feel very aware. It’s a very good feeling.

They’re in the amaryllis family and known by zillions of names. Other names in English are red magic lily, naked lady, resurrection lily, and hurricane lily–the latter surely because they’re said to be encouraged to pop out from the ground after a big late summer or early autumn rain.

In Japanese, their most commonly used name is 彼岸花  (higanbana = the equinox flower), 　　死人花　(shibitobana = dead person flower), 幽霊花 (yureibana = ghost flower),　蛇の花, (hebi no hana = snake flower), 剃刀花 (kamisoribana = razor flower),　狐花, (kitsunebana = fox flower), and—no offense to anyone intended—はっかけばばあ (hakkakebabah = toothless old woman).

In Sanskrit, they’re called manjushaka, which translates something like “flower of heaven.” The scientific name is Lycoris radiata, after a spirit of the sea in Greek mythology.

They originally come from China, where they still exist as diploids, that is, their chromosones come in pairs, enabling them to produce seeds. However, the spider lilies brought into Japan were tripoids, their chromosones coming in sets of three, and are unable to produce seeds. Basically, they are sterile, and can only be grown from their bulbs.

Spider lilies in the U.S., they say, all come from three bulbs brought back from Japan by a military man in 1854—not long after Admiral Perry had aimed his cannons at the mainland and said, from his “black ships,” open up for business or else.

The most common theory out there is that when rice was first brought from China to Japan, some of the bulbs came along for the ride—that is, they were not intentionally brought to Japan, and that when the poisonous nature of their bulbs was discovered, farmers planted them at the edge of rice fields to keep away small pests like mice and moles.

So you most commonly find them growing them at the edge of rice fields—and by rivers and small streams, and also in graveyards.

The bulbs may be poisonous, but some have found some sweetness in the flowers.

Some people say the flowers look like sparklers and remind them of summer festivals.

Some say they look like the garlands that a young bride and her bridesmaids might wear.

Some say there is something sexy about them.

One person told me that if roses are sophisticated and elegant ballet dancers, spider lilies are passionate Latin dancers.

Actually, the flow of petals atop a single stalk looks to me like a ballet ensemble—six dancers. One stalk with one umbel (a kind of upside-down umbrella frame) with six radiating “spokes”, each with a five-curly-petals flower, the petals from one spoke weaving together with the ones to both sides of it. The “garland” effect.

Some say the spider lilies frighten them. Some say they comfort them. Some say the fluorescent red of new blossoms is “too loud.” Others say the brilliance invigorates them.

They are certainly associated with death—so if death is something you fear greatly, then you might not like to visit our neck of the woods in September.

But it’s better not to think of them as death flowers, but as (as their most common Japanese name suggests you do) equinox flowers.

The equinox.

The rice is ready to harvest.

The persimmons are well on their way.

It’s a time to be joyous. A time to feel content. But it’s also the beginning of the cool weather. The days and nights are now of equal length, but for the rest of the year, the days are only going to get shorter, and the nights longer.

All things must pass.

The equinox. For Buddhists, this is the time of Haramitsu (in Japanese), and Paramita (in Sanskrit), which might translate as something like the Six (or Ten) Practices for Becoming Enlightened. Below is a basic explanation of the Six-Practice version. If I’ve gotten something wrong, or something is a bit incomplete, let me know.

Fuse (Dana) – generosity, charity, the giving of alms

Jikai (Sila) – ethical living

Nintai (Ksanti) – patience, forbearance, forgiveness

Shohjin (Virya) – abstinence

Zentei (Dhyana) – equanimity and awareness (perhaps through meditation)

Chie (Prajna) – wisdom, insight into the true nature of reality

To me, these are six of the many, many things the spider lilies want us to consider.

Some people say they look like sentinels, standing at the edge of fields as they do, kind of like the officers on duty in the neighborhood police box: They’re watching us.

That’s a little creepy, maybe. To me, they are much more like Jizo. They are bodhisattva, beings well on their way to enlightenment, but beings who have kindly stayed behind  so that they can help us, so that they can guide us. “All things must pass,” they say to us, “But that’s nothing to worry about. It’s always been that way and always will. You’re going to be just fine. Just live the best life you can. Follow your own inner nature and all will be fine.”

So when I look at the spider lilies, and I feel particularly moved by them . . .

. . . here’s the image that fills my head. These guys also live in the neighborhood.

Not all of the spider lilies are red. I like them in all colors. But I especially like the red ones, and I especially like the ones next to a rice field turned golden yellow . . .
. . . and especially like them next to a golden rice field under a blue sky. I’m simple. Primary colors do wonders for me.

 

 

We Hearty Hikers had planned in a couple of spare days, thinking it was likely our two-day hike might be postponed by heavy rain . . . but the weather was great and we finished the hiking up Mt. Miyanoura and through the ancient cedar forest with no problems and were left with a couple of days with no plans in particular.

Yoyu. That’s what it’s called in Japanese. A bit of time when you don’t have to rush. A bit of time when you have time to enjoy the time. If you need to explore something, you’ve got more than enough time to do so. If you need to think about something, you’ve got  plenty of time for that, too.

The southern coastline of Yakushima.

I feel a little guilty showing all these beautiful ocean views. We were certainly lucky to have a chance to travel to Yakushima—and to be blessed with incredibly fine weather—but really all I want to say, at the moment, is that the world is very, very beautiful, and I hope a bit of photography can inspire all of us to consider the importance of yoyu in fully appreciating that beauty. I can’t speak for you, but the beauty does wonders for me.

If you’re in this part of the world, a trip to Yakushima is highly recommended. If you’ve got to book flights ahead of time, then you should just resign yourself to the fact that typhoons and heavy rain may dash your plans—that’s what happened to us last October.

Be patient. Get there. Sometime or another. It’s worth it.

Snorklers wading into the Kurio River, where it runs into the Pacific Ocean. Or maybe the East China Sea. Hard to say at that particular point, just looking at a map.

A view of Kuchinoerabu Island from the rocks at the mouth of the Kurio River, on the southwest corner of Yakushima.

The rocks at the mouth of the Kurio River create a maze-like series of channels. Great for snorkeling expeditions. Lots of colorful fish. Sorry, sorry, no underwater camera.

From the Kurio rocks.

Snorkeling channels.

The Kurio rocks. And the mountains. You’re never far from either on Yakushima, about 505 square kilometers in area. You can drive around the entire island in about 2.5 hours. If you don’t stop. Of course, you will stop. Many, many times.

The Kurio tide pools. Lots of little metallic blue fish here. Starfish, too. A good place for small children to explore (with parents nearby).

Not far from Kurio, the Okonotaki Waterfall.  When you drive around the island, your average speed is about 40-50 kph (25-30 mph?). There is not a whole lot of development. Drive long enough and you’re bound to meet deer and monkeys.

On the southern coastline, the Yudomari Hot Springs. Soothing water. It’s more or less free, but there’s a box to donate 100 yen for upkeep. Guys on the other side of the fence. Heard some debate about whether bathing suits were allowed or not.
Kuchinoerabu Island from the northern coastline.

The lighthouse at the western-most point of the island.

Between the lighthouse and Miyanoura Port, on the northern coast, Inaka Beach. A famous spot for sea turtles laying eggs.
Here, I recommend a little yoyu.

Near the end of the 18th century, the Prussian naturalist/explorer, Alexander von Humboldt invented a device, a cyanometer, to measure the degree of blue in the blue. If you don’t have a cyanometer, though, you’re not necessarily at a disadvantage. Just look at the smile on the face of your fellow Hearty Hikers.

Rocks at the edge of Inaka Beach. Good snorkeling. Apparently tourists are not recommended to snorkel here so much—there are other, calmer spots. I thought it was plenty safe, and just a couple of meters beyond the rocks it’s three or four meters deep with perfect visibility—lots of fish big and small. Maybe the best visibility of three spots I tried.

About 30 minutes back east from Inaka Beach, Isso Beach. A lifeguard here so tourists feel comfortable. This is on the left side of Isso Peninsula. If you go to the right side, the coastline is more rocky . . .

. . . and folks are both scuba diving and snorkeling. Why is the Heart Hiker above so happy? She’s walked straight out into the inlet, 30 meters or so, as far as she could stand up, then floated another 20 meters, perhaps out to a depth of two meters, and communed with a sea turtle. The turtle was munching on some rock greens, so didn’t move for the ten minutes we floated above him. Him, her, I don’t know. Beautiful, beautiful animal. “A goddess of the sea,” the above Hearty Hiker proclaimed.

A view of Iwojima. Not the Iwojima of WW2 fame. There are two Iwojimas. Confusing, huh. Along the road, yoyu.

Along the road, yoyu.

Toroki Falls, on the southern coast, spilling into the ocean.

Flying home.

 

We hiked down from Mt. Miyanoura and spent the night in the Shintakatsuka Lodge, which meant if we started hiking at 5 AM, we’d get to the most famous cedar tree in Japan,  Jomon Sugi, around 6:20.  Most people (several hundred, I’d guess) were hiking UP to Jomon Sugi and would probably get there around 10 or 11 AM, but only about fifteen or so of us were hiking DOWN to the tree. Which was good for us. We got our good look at the tree with just a few other folks around.

After about an hour of hiking the day broke.

And then we were standing in front of the Jomon Sugi. Hikers aren’t allowed to get close to the tree, and the wooden viewing deck is some 30 or 40 meters off, so with a regular little camera, or maybe any camera, it’s hard to take a picture that shows its immensity—but it is truly immense. Not so tall, only 25 meters, but very, very stout. The chest-high circumference is 16.4 meters. Estimated age is somewhere between 2000 and 7200 years old. It’s much bigger than a number of trees presumed to be 3000 years old, but some folks suggest that it’s actually more than one tree, that several trees grew together, and it’s that big not because of its age, but because of the marriage it underwent. Somehow, I feel it’s probably a lot older than 3000 years old—but that’s just a feeling.

Down the trail from Jomon, Dai-ou Sugi. A mere 11.1 meters in circumference chest-high and an estimated 3000 years old.

Compared to the big and famous cedars, this one is just a little baby.

The Meoto Sugi, the “Husband and Wife Cedar.” The “wife,” on the right, is 5.8 meters in circumference chest-high and an estimated 1500 years old. The “husband” is 10.9 meters in circumference and an estimated 2000 years old. Their bond seems strong indeed.

Most of the trail is composed of wooden steps, one, to encourage people not to wander off the trail and into the fragile environment, and two, to put the hiker’s feet above all the water that’s running every which way and surely gets fairly heavy whenever it rains.

And it rains, they say, on this part of the mountain, almost every day.

Near the bottom of the Oh-kabu Path, you come to “Wilson’s Stump,” named for an English botanist who did a lot of work with cherry tree varieties—and also introduced the stump to English readers.

The tree was reportedly cut down at the order of Hideyoshi Toyotomi, in 1586, in order to build a temple in Kyoto, though whether the lumber actually made it to Kyoto or not is unclear.

It was 13.8 meters in circumference when it was cut down and perhaps a little more than 2000 years old.

You can get up close and cozy with this tree. You can walk inside, and if you stand in just the right spot . . .

. . . you can see a heart. Not one of the tens of thousands of hikers who step into Wilson’s Stump every year has not taken this photo. There is a Shinto Shrine inside. As many as 25 people can be inside at one time . . . though thankfully when we Hearty Hikers were inside it was just us two.

Looking up at the rising trees and the light from the inside of this stump was perhaps the highlight of the day for me.

I like light, like the perception of light.

Just below Wilson’s Stump, you come to the end of the Oh-Kabu Path and to a rest area—the last toilet for those on their way up. From the rest area, you hit the railroad tracks that most Jomon hikers follow the entire 7.5 km back to the bus stop.

The railroad tracks remain from the logging days.

We got a little rain here, which was great. It wouldn’t have been a real Yakushima experience without experiencing the big drops on our heads walking along the tracks.

A river flowing under the railroad tracks.

More railroad tracks. The cedar plumes on the ground a sign of the most recent typhoon. We saw some monkeys around here, but they wouldn’t stand still for pictures. Got lots of fuzzy pictures. (Better monkey pictures on Day 3.)

We only followed the railroad tracks for about half the 7.5 km, then veered off on the trail that leads to Shiratani Unsui Gorge.

A mushroom.

The trail leading to Shiratani. All up.

Just as you get to the top of the ridge and you’re poised to go down into the Shiratani area, there’s a side trail that takes you up to Taiko Rock. When we got up there, the mist had rolled in, but you could see that it would be a spectacular view on a clear day. A big river rushes down the mountain it faces. We’d had beautiful 360 degree views atop Mt. Miyanoura the day before, so we were not upset not to get a clear view from Taiko.

And we’re glad there is weather. That there is rain. That there are forests to hold the rain. Great breathing.

The Shiratani area is famous for its moss and is said to be the inspiration for the mossy forests in certain Japanese animations. A bit of rain here, too—just what I’d been hoping for.

A shiny cedar stump along the river path.

A shiny—and knotty–himeshara tree.

Nanahon Sugi.

The Shiratani River.

Walking along the river.

The skies cleared just as we were finishing up. Started at 5 AM. Finished around 1:30 PM.

Finally we made it to Yakushima. Last October, we were typhooned out, but this year we avoided typhoons and rain and amazingly had three days of complete sunshine, and one day with a total of an hour or an hour and a half of rain. So we were so blessed—and could do everything we’d hoped we could do—and even more. Two days of hiking and two days of snorkeling. The first day, a climb up Mt. Miyanoura, at 1936 meters the highest on the island.

From Shizuoka, we flew to Kagoshima. On the way, we were told  that if too much ash spewed out from the Sakurajima volcano that we may have to divert to another airport, but we fortunately were able to land at the Kagoshima Airport as scheduled. From there, it was a prop plane hop over to Yakushima, a 20-minute taxi ride to our pension, five hours or so of sleep, an early-bird, one-hour taxi ride to the Yodogawa trailhead . . .

. . . and a 5 AM hiking start. As you can see, my blurry eyes make the sign at the trailhead appear a little blurry.

If you do any hiking, you need to get a hiking pass, 1000 yen for day hiking, and 2000 yen, if you spend a night up on a mountain. The pass is a small square piece of cedar that you can attach to your backpack.

From the trailhead at 1365 meters, it’s about an hour (1.5 km) to the Yodogawa Hut. Up to the Miyanoura summit, there are lots of streams, so you can get water just about whenever you want, at least over the first 3/4ths of the way up to the summit. The Yodogawa Hut has the last outhouse on the trail up, so after that you’ll have to use a portable toilet (you don’t want to pee or poop illegally on a World Heritage site!) until you reach the lodge two hours down from the summit—six, seven, or eight hours from the Yodogawa Hut, depending on pace and the number of breaks to you take.

The Yodogawa River.

Around 6:15, the sun begins to work its way into the woods. 

The higher you go, the more you get open views of what’s up ahead.

It’s about 2.8 km from the Hut to the Hana-no-Ego peat marsh (1630 m). You’re doing pretty good! Stand tall! Enjoy the view! From the marsh, it’s 3.5 km to the summit. From the trailhead to the summit, maybe 5 or 5.5 hours walking time.

In the foreground is a shakunage bush/tree, a sort of rhododendron. They bloom in June, so if you can go then, the mountains will be a combination of green and pink.

Sometimes the trail is just where a stream and rocks cut through the bamboo, a smaller variety than what grows on the mountains in Shizuoka.

Also some fun rocks to climb up through.

The last hour or so is all rock and bamboo. The rocks are beautiful. The bamboo is beautiful. It’s all beautiful.

You might imagine Yakushima, southern island that it is, to always be beautiful like this, but apparently these sort of days are not so common. There can be lots of rain, even when it’s sunny down on the coast, and if winds come through, they can make it hard to stand . . . but this day we were truly, truly blessed.

Up through the bamboo.

Up, up through the bamboo.

Enjoy the rocks. Ponder how the sculptor got that giant rock on top of that mega-giant rock.

As you approach the summit, you get a mighty fine view of the neighboring Mt. Nagata.

Finally, a view of the summit.

And then voila, you’re on the top. I think our walking time from the trailhead was about 4.5 hours. With a couple of breaks, we got up there at 10:15.

A small early lunch and then it was down the other side on the trail that leads to the Jomon Sugi cedar tree, almost certainly the oldest tree in Japan, with estimates from 2000 years old to 7200 years old. Other much smaller trees have been proven to be over 3000 years old so I’d personally guess (sitting in my armchair) that Jomon is at least 4 or 5 thousand year. Old enough.

No sooner had we started down that the fog blew in. If you hike you know how that is. Blue skies one minute . . . and then . . .

. . . disappearing mountains and grey the next.

More bamboo and rocks.

A silver cedar trunk.

The green, green view of the back side of Miyanoura.

Back into the trees. From the Miyanoura summit to the Shintakatsuka Lodge, where we stayed the night, about 3.5 km, or 2 or 2.5 hours. The Jomon Sugi will have to wait until the morning.

Limbs twisting about, searching for the light—as we all are.

A friend.

Himeshara trees and shakunage.

Finally the lodge. Outhouse a minute’s walk away. No meals served, no electricity, just a wood floor to sleep on, and lots of mice to tickle your dreams as you try to get yourself a bit rested for another 5 AM hike start. Me, I took a bath beside the nearby stream.

The deer seem to find the moss on the rocks around the lodge tasty.