Oi Juku: A Living Museum in the Heart of Japan

 --Susan, every other Sunday

A little over a year ago, I traveled to the tiny but historically important town of Oi in Gifu Prefecture, Japan, to begin a week-long hike on the Nakasendo, one of the historic travel roads that once connected the ancient capital of Kyoto with the then-modern capital of Edo (now called Tokyo . . . and still the capital of Japan).

A carved map showing the post towns of the Nakasendo (Oi is the large one about 2/3 of the way to the right)

This famous bridge marks the official entrance into Oi, and is decorated with Hiroshige prints of the Nakasendo.

Most people have never heard of Oi. Even during its 17th century heyday, it was a small, rural town--little more than a village--near the base of the first major mountain range travelers had to climb on their northward journey.

Hand painted 17th century map of the Nakasendo. Many mountains...

Like most of the post towns on the Nakasendo, Oi derived the bulk of its income from the travel road. Although the road itself predated the 17th century, after the capital moved to Edo in 1603, then-shogun Tokugawa Ieyasu established the Nakasendo as one of five official travel roads. After that time, most of the visitors who passed through town were required to register with shogunate officials (generally, an ancillary duty of the village headman or the largest merchant in the town) and display a travel pass to demonstrate their right to move along the road.

Nakasendo travel pass, Oi Juku Museum

Most of the passes were made of wood, for purposes of durability. The authorization was either handwritten or, more commonly, stamped on the surface.

Taxes were also levied in the post towns; clerks sat at low, wooden desks and deposited the taxes in special lockboxes. Then, as now, there was apparently a need to ensure that money went in, but did not come out:

Assessor's desk. Note the narrow slit in the lockbox to the left, where taxes went.

Although not a major tourist destination, like some of the other Nakasendo post towns, Oi is proud of its history. In addition to transforming one of the original merchants' homes into a small (but delightful) museum, the town is also home to the Hiroshige Museum, featuring the work of Utagawa Hiroshige (1797-1858) one of Japan's most famous, and most skilled, carvers of woodblock prints. (His work on the Stations of the Tokaido is better known outside Japan, but he also did a beautiful, famous series on the Nakasendo.)

At the print museum, visitors can view a number of works by Hiroshige and other artists, and can also make a woodblock print of their own, using the traditional Japanese method. This is mine:

Don't worry. I'm not giving up my day job.

After touring the museums and walking the stretch of the Nakasendo that runs through the tiny town, in preparation for the next day's longer hike to Magome, I headed to Ichikawa ryokan, the traditional inn where I planned to spend the night.

Ichikawa Ryokan, Oi Juku

Ichikawa has been owned and operated by a single family for 16 generations--and the inn has been serving travelers on the Nakasendo all that time.   

The traditional wall that encircles the property conceals an inn that has changed very little (except for the introduction of modern conveniences like electricity and indoor plumbing aside) since the original travelers stopped here. The stone lantern in the entry garden is original, and guests still leave their shoes on a rack in the genkan upon arrival, for retrieval the following morning.

The entry to Ichikawa Ryokan.

Dinner at a ryokan is always an experience, and Ichikawa is no exception. Like most traditional inns, the meals feature fresh, local ingredients and recipes handed down by generations of innkeepers. Fortunately for me, Ichikawa was also able to accommodate my allergy to fish - and even noted it on my place card, to ensure the servers did not accidentally offer me the incorrect plates.

The first two courses at Ichikawa - many more followed ...

Traditional Japanese dinners are often coursed, and the meal at Ichikawa was no exception. In addition to the cook-at-the-table hot pot (nabe) and appetizers pictured, the innkeepers had prepared seven other small, delightful offerings, which were served sequentially over about an hour's time.

Like many other small, historic towns and villages in Japan, Oi has managed to maintain and celebrate its past while also keeping pace with the 21st century. 

Traditional children's toys in the Oi Museum

Its position off the beaten path has helped--as has the fact that outside visitors tend to be people interested in the Nakasendo and its history, and willing to travel a few extra miles to learn about this special part of that history.

People used to wear these on the Nakasendo. Makes me grateful for modern boots.

Each of the post towns on the Nakasendo has a unique character and feel, despite their common history as links in the chain of commerce that connected Japan's two major Edo-Period cities. People often start a Nakasendo walk a day later, in the better-known town of Magome, but I was glad I gave my walk an extra day, and started in Oi instead. The town, and its people, were one of my many favorite experiences hiking the Nakasendo in 2019. 

Little towns and little museums...yes or no? I like big city museums too, but the tiny, local museums have character that's often missing from the displays in larger urban settings. Which one do you prefer?

Crossing the Barrier

-- Susan, every other Sunday

During the Edo Period (1603-1868) the Nakasendō ("Middle-mountain Road") - also known as the Kiso-Kaidō - was one of the primary routes that connected the former capital of Kyoto with Edo (now called Tokyo), the "new" capital of Japan.

Large "barrier stations" (sekishō) stood at intervals along these routes, guarding the roads and inspecting people and cargo that passed through. While they functioned as toll stations and collected fees at many times and places, their primary purpose was military: preventing undocumented soldiers or firearms from entering or leaving Edo, or from traveling along the major highways.

The Barrier at Kiso-Fukushima

To pass, most travelers had to present a tegata--a special travel pass, customarily made of wood and inscribed with information about the bearer, as well as the seal of the village headman or daimyō who granted the bearer the right to travel.

A woman's tegata (lower wooden block) from the Edo period

The most famous of these barriers stands in Hakone, a couple of hours south of Tokyo, where it guarded access to the famous Tokaidō.

The Hakone Barrier

While hiking the Nakasendo last November, I had the opportunity to visit the famous barrier station in Kiso-Fukushima, deep in the mountains of the Kiso Valley.

Fukushima Sekisho - clearly a member of the same family.

Like the Hakone Barrier, the Fukushima Sekisho is well-preserved and has been reconstructed using the original plans and materials to give visitors a chance to experience a slice of life in Edo Period Japan.

The barrier station, where officials checked travelers' documents.

Barriers were normally built in places where the natural geography funneled travelers through a small, defensible gap. This was important both for security (invading armies are easier to stop in bottlenecks) and to prevent travelers from trying to circumvent the barrier (both to avoid inspection and to dodge the tolls they paid when passing through).

 In Hakone, the barrier sits between Lake Asahi and a steep mountain ridge that would have been a bear to climb in sandals even in good weather, let alone in snow or rain. (I know from experience, because I climbed it as part of my 100 Summits year.)

In Kiso-fukushima, the barrier nestles in a deep gorge carved by the Kiso River, with steep mountains on either side.

Kiso-Fukushima, as seen from the barrier.

The Nakasendo rises to the bottleneck where the station sits.

The barrier is just visible at the top of the hill on the left.

Like the Hakone Barrier, the Fukushima Sekishō consists of a large yard, with enormous wooden  gates on either end. Travelers would enter through the gate, leave any horses or beasts of burden in the yard, and present their passes to the officials inside the barrier station.


The station served as both an office and a barracks, and was home to a cohort of samurai warriors at all times. The warriors lived and trained at the barrier, prepared to defend it at a moment's notice.

The officials who inspected papers and passes lived in separate quarters--including one female official, who had responsibility for inspecting the papers and hair of every woman who passed through the barrier station.

Edo period rain gear, used by officials when the weather did not cooperate.

(During this era, daimyō and their wives and eldest sons were supposed to live in Edo for specified periods of time; preventing women from leaving the capital without permission helped to keep these "hostages" close at hand, and their husbands under the shogun's direct control.)

The barrier opened at 6am and closed at 6pm--and since nobody could pass through the barrier station (which blocked the entire Nakasendo route) inns and teahouses sprang up on both sides of the barrier, to cater to travelers who arrived too late in the day (or too early in the morning) and had to wait.

Edo period lanterns, used by the night watchmen. (They still didn't let you pass.)

By the 1840s, the tiny mountain village of Kiso-Fukushima had a permanent population of just over 1,000 people - and 14 inns (a very large number for a town of that size, all of them due to the Nakasendo traffic).

My room at the ryokan (traditional inn) in Kiso-Fukushima.

The town was also a thriving center for the lumber trade. Wood from the Kiso Valley has been valued--and valuable--for centuries, and the Tokugawa shoguns posted a special lumber administrator in Kiso-Fukushima to oversee the valley and manage the lumber farms, forestry, and trade.

While walking the Nakasendo last autumn, I arrived in Kiso-Fukushima near midday, but opted to hike to a famous waterfall in the mountains above the town before visiting the barrier.

The view from the hills above the barrier.

The hike took longer than expected (though the waterfall was worth it) and I found myself hurrying through the streets of this tiny town with only minutes before the barrier and museum closed for the night (at 6pm, as it has for centuries).

I made it with twenty minutes to spare - fortunately, enough time to tour the small museum and appreciate the displays of artifacts, including some discovered during archaeological excavations of the site before it was rebuilt.

Pottery found in the ruins when the sekisho was reconstructed.

As I walked back through the darkening streets to my ryokan, I thought about the thousands of visitors who, like me, had spent the night in this mountain town.

Night falls on the Fukushima Sekisho

The road and the barrier that brought them here continue drawing visitors to this day, a pair of anchors on a chain whose links stretch back for centuries, connecting the present with the past along the Kiso Road.

 

Guardians of the Ancient Roads

-- Susan, every other Sunday

A week ago, I returned from a nine-day, 120-km hike along one of Japan's medieval travel roads.

On the Kiso Kaido near Kaida

Technically, the hike took me along parts of three different roads--the Kiso Kaido (which dates to at least the tenth century), the Nakasendo (which dates to the 17th), and the Shio-no-Michi (exact dates unknown), each of which once served as an important route for transporting goods (and travelers) through the mountains of central Japan.

The Nakasendo near Jizo Pass, Kiso-Fukushima

Throughout Japan, travel roads are lined with stone statues and shrines that represent dosojin (literally "road-ancestor-kami") -- Shintō deities that supposedly protect people and animals traveling  on the roads.

Dosojin near the 17th century post town of Magome

In many places, stone Buddhas also watch over the roads, particularly images of the bodhisattva Jizō, a patron of travelers, children, and the lost.

Jizo statues on the Jizo Pass, Kaida

The Nakasendo, Kiso Kaido and Shio-no-Michi (which literally translates "Salt Road" because it was originally used to bring that vital commodity from the sea to the mountains, where it was sold) are no exception. Stone monuments, shrines, and Buddhas line the roads - particularly in the passes and along the steepest routes.

Dosojin near Kanazawa

In many places, the statues are set above the level of the road, allowing the deities to literally look down on the travelers passing by.

He has you covered

Large portions of these ancient routes remain almost as isolated as they were in the medieval age, and it's not difficult to understand why ancient travelers--lacking the ubiquitous mobile connectivity we enjoy today--would have wanted protection on these steep, forested trails.

Kannon, goddess of mercy, in a place where mercy is welcome indeed.

In other places, the guardians' presence reinforces the sacred feeling of these ancient woods and rambling paths.

A holy place along the Nakasendo near the Usui Pass

These roads may no longer be vital arteries connecting the mountain villages to the beating heart of the Japanese capital, but they still pulse with history and life--both natural and human.

Autumn in the Kiso Valley

And through it all, the dosojin stand guard, benevolent sentinels watching over both the roads and the travelers with ancient eyes that were here centuries before us, and will still be watching after all of us are gone.

The Nakasendo, Through My Father's Eyes

--Susan, Every Other Sunday

My father died unexpectedly, ten years ago, on the day that would have been his 65th birthday. In the years since his death, I've learned to appreciate, even more deeply, our shared passion for photography--especially the way his photographs taught me to view the world.

Dad took the "expected" pictures: family vacations, kids growing up, panoramic views of spectacular sunsets and many, many portraits of his beloved and spoiled cats. But for every such photo he took, he took at least two close-up photographs of flowers, butterflies, bugs, or bees.

Dad didn't take this, but he would have, had he been there.

Dad taught me to look more closely at the world around me, and that doing so would often reveal unexpected details other people will often miss.

Looking over my photographs from my recent travels on the Nakasendo (a preserved section of the 17th century travel road through the Japan Alps), it's clear his spirit, and his lessons, still influence me behind the lens.  Today, I'd like to take you on a tour of the Nakasendo, through the lessons my father taught me about photography--none of which were consciously in my mind as I shot the images. I realized only after the fact that even though Dad never visited the Nakasendo, each of these photos is one he would have taken, had he been there.

The kanji on this old waypoint marker read "Nakasendo"

Dad loved sardonic humor (there's no question where I get it) and liked to photograph things that made him smile.

Schroedinger's trail is, and is not, the way forward.

Some of the greatest gifts nature has to offer are the ones you have to be still and patient enough to see.

Moth sunning itself on a leaf near the side of the trail.

You'll miss some of the most interesting things in life if you're too busy or too preoccupied to stop and look, with the eyes to see the things that flitter, creep, and crawl.

A dragonfly resting on the cobblestones of the ancient travel road.

Or if you forget to raise your eyes and see the larger view. And when you see it . . . take the time to frame the image to direct the eye and convey the moment as strongly as possible.

The view from a rest point on the Nakasendo.

Dad often photographed his subjects not just from the expected angles (straight on, center frame) but from unusual perspectives. Sometimes those shots were terrible, but sometimes they were far more interesting than the "usual suspects."

I shot this shrine entrance from the front, and from this side approach. This shot is infinitely better.

While walking along the river to visit Otake-Metake falls, I stopped to listen to the river and watch it dance among the stones. Had I not stopped to appreciate the river, rather than just the falls, I would have missed the two stone cairns someone (or, more likely, a series of someones) created in the middle of the stream. I climbed down the bank, said a prayer, and added a stone to the top of the left-hand cairn before stepping into the stream itself to snap a photograph.

Dad's lesson here? Balancing the weight of the stones in the foreground with the angle and weight of the water at the back.

These are the things you miss if you stay on the path and hurry to the destination.

When I returned to Magome after the hike, I walked through the street seeking subjects I hadn't photographed on previous visits. I heard angry chattering from the nearby eaves, and discovered a nest of nearly-fledged tsubame (swallows) waiting for dinner.

Yet another gift I would have missed if I hadn't been "looking" with more than just my eyes.

More than anything else, Dad taught me that a camera is more than just a tool for recording life as it passes by around you. It does that, too, of course, but the powerful shots--the ones that make you think, or feel, or experience something you didn't expect--are a fusion of the lens, the moment, and the mind and heart of the person who snapped the frame.

Thank you, Dad. (And thank you for indulging me in this bit of ancestral photographic navel-gazing along Japan's historic travel road.)

Another Reason to Choose the Road Less Traveled

-- Susan, every other Sunday

When traveling in Japan, and especially when hiking its glorious mountains, I try to live by the immortal (and lovely) words of Robert Frost:

"Two roads diverged in a wood, and I -- I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference." (--Robert Frost, The Road Not Taken)

Never once has the less-traveled path disappointed me, and my experience hiking a preserved section of the Nakasendo Road through the Japan Alps last November was no exception.

I set out from the preserved post town of Magome just after dawn, in time to see the sun rise over Mount Ena - one of Japan's "Hundred Famous Peaks."

A glorious start to any day.

I anticipated it would take between 3 and 4 hours to hike the trail over the mountain pass that separates Magome from the (also preserved) historical town of Tsumago. Both served as post towns on the Kisoji and Nakasendo, travel roads that connected Kyoto with Edo (now Tokyo) during Japan's medieval age.

I hiked through forested hills aflame with brilliant foliage and resounding with the calls and cries of many different birds. The air smelled crisp, with undertones of wood smoke and autumn leaves.

In the footsteps of samurai . . .

Because I started early, I had the road to myself and plenty of time to stop and investigate the sights along the way. I stopped at a lovely old mill:

Nakasendo scenery

And a Shintō shrine - both of which I'd noted on my map and planned to see.

The intersection of history, faith, nature, and culture.

But then, about halfway to Tsumago, I saw a sign I hadn't expected sitting beside a fork in the road.

Road Less Traveled Calling. Please pick up the white courtesy phone.

Waterfalls? They weren't on my map - and the sign gave no indication how far I'd have to walk to find them. (A note: this is *extremely* unusual in Japan. Trail markers customarily tell you exactly how far you are from multiple destinations.)

But based on my personal traveling philosophy, they immediately became a part of my itinerary. I stepped off my intended road and headed off in search of adventure.

About ten minutes later, I had my first sight of the waterfall through the trees.

Waterfalls!!

Followed shortly by another sign, pointing me along a narrow, somewhat overgrown path that apparently led to the falls. I followed without hesitation.

This is a far more normal Japanese trail sign.
You might not know where you are, but you know how long it will take to get where you're going.

As promised, almost 50 meters later the path opened onto a bridge.

With a waterfall at the other end....

Although the photo doesn't show it, the wood was significantly weathered and slippery with spray from the waterfall-fed river that ran beneath it.

In case people didn't notice, someone had also posted a warning sign:

Slippery when wet . . . and it's always wet.

I crossed the bridge and found myself facing a lovely, laughing waterfall.

Otaki Falls: approximately 15 meters tall.

It doesn't look that large, but the wind it created was enough to blow my hair back off my face, and its spray dampened my cheeks enough that I had to wipe them off when I walked away.

Otaki Metake falls consists of two waterfalls (Otaki and Metake, which mean "Man" and "Woman" respectively).  After I finished enjoying Otaki falls, I walked about a hundred yards to Metake, which is narrower, but just as high:

Metake Falls

After several minutes photographing the falls and several more just standing nearby and appreciating their beauty, I backtracked to the original trail and set off for Tsumago. The detour cost me a little more than half an hour, but gave me far more enjoyment than the sum of its time and step-based parts.

Back on the trail.

Yet again, the road less traveled made all the difference in a day I will always treasure.