Day 11/12: Of sacred shrines, sneezing fits, and the most life-changing McDonald’s hack ever

They say the journey matters more than the destination. But those people have clearly never taken a perfectly good bus to the Kumano Nachi-Taisha Shrine. Yes, I “cheated.” No, I do not feel bad. Because the second I stepped off that bus, I was smacked in the face by the most jaw-dropping sight in all of Japan: a 133-foot waterfall that falls with the grace of an ancient deity and the sheer force of an overachiever at work.

And just in case my legs were feeling neglected after a week of hiking? The universe handed me 500+ stairs. Surprise! Didn’t matter, though. Those stairs were so beautiful, surrounded by torii gates, bridges, and towering pagodas, that I barely noticed my thighs crying for help.

Then, the sacred camphor tree. 850 years old. An absolute unit of a tree. And a spiritual experience to boot! Here’s how it works: you write your deepest wish on a little wooden plaque, literally walk through the tree’s hollowed-out trunk, and leave your wish on the other side, where monks will eventually burn it in a sacred ritual. I don’t know what kind of cosmic customer service hotline this is, but if my wish doesn’t come true, I will be expecting a full refund.

Now, let’s talk about Japan’s national treasure: cherry blossoms. I spent 10 whole days dreaming about these soft pink wonders, imagining myself gracefully strolling under them like the main character in a historical drama. Reality? I am violently allergic to cherry blossoms. Cue me sneezing like a possessed banshee, eyes watering, nose running, looking less like a poetic wanderer and more like I had been personally cursed by a Shinto deity. But hey—worth it.

By midday, I found salvation in a steaming bowl of ramen from a tiny village shop. That bowl of noodles hit my sinuses with the power of a thousand wasabi bombs and restored my will to live. Absolutely life-giving.

Checked into a lovely little hotel with a communal bath. Now, if you’ve never been to a Japanese onsen, let me paint you a picture: it’s a steaming hot bath shared with strangers, and the whole experience relies on delicate social etiquette. But guess who lucked out and had the entire place to herself? Me. Just me, the soothing water, and my weary, blistered body sinking into oblivion. I may have reached enlightenment in that moment.

Dinner? A feast with my new Singaporean-American friends, featuring an absolute parade of deliciousness: teriyaki chicken, stuffed breaded chicken, tofu hotpot, sashimi, and other delightful Japanese creations that I consumed without asking too many questions. 10/10, would eat again.

The next morning, breakfast was another masterpiece—perfectly cooked scrambled eggs, smoked mackerel, and Nachisan miso—a local specialty so divine that if someone handed me a litre of it, I would chug it without hesitation.

But all good things must come to an end. I said goodbye to some of the most incredible women I met on this trek—fellow warriors of the trail, survivors of questionable hiking snacks, and all-around fantastic humans. I have a feeling we’ll be swapping stories for years to come.

Spent my final day wandering around Shingu, hunting for souvenirs in the only place that truly matters: the local grocery store. Tragically, there was no Nachisan miso to be found (devastating). So, for dinner, I did something radical. Something sacrilegious after all this exquisite Japanese cuisine.

I went to McDonald’s.

But here’s where it gets groundbreaking. In Japan, McDonald’s sells 40-yen seasoning packets for your fries. And they give you a shaking bag. So you dump your fries in, add the seasoning, and shake them like your dignity depends on it. I chose garlic salt, and let me tell you—this was not just a snack. This was a revelation. A spiritual awakening. The missing puzzle piece in my life.