Day 7: Kumano Kodo – Nakahechi Route — Sweat, sushi, and the sacred womb of shame

Woke up leisurely — because I’m on pilgrimage, not parole — packed my suitcase, and shipped it ahead like a dignified traveler who refuses to carry unnecessary weight (because that’s what my emotional baggage is for). Caught the 0910 bus to Takijiri-Oji, the gateway to the Kumano Kudo, a World Heritage pilgrimage trail. Sounds serene, right? Yeah, that didn’t last.

The moment you pass through that sacred gate, the path transforms into something straight out of a medieval torture manual. Three kilometers of steep, unforgiving climb. The kind of trail that makes you question not only your fitness but your life choices. It’s a “take a wrong step and become a local ghost story” type of vibe. But I made it — slow, steady, and cursing the entire way.

Halfway up, I found something called the @Tainai Kuguri Test of Faith. It’s a cave shaped like a turtle (because why not?), and the idea is to squeeze through this rock formation — symbolising “passing through the womb” — for spiritual rebirth and, apparently, smooth childbirth. Listen, I’m not planning on popping out any kids at this stage in life, but who am I to back down from a superstition?

So, there I am: sweaty, armed with hiking sticks, and staring into a cave hole that looks more suited to a house cat than a full-grown human with hips and regrets. I push my backpack through first (barely fits — a bad omen), then squeeze my torso through, boobs first. Success! But then my ass gets stuck. Of course it does.

With the grace of a trapped walrus, I push harder. A jagged rock snags my hiking pants, yanking them down to my ankles as I flop out the other side like a newborn, mooning the gods and anyone unfortunate enough to be behind me (thankfully, no one was). If spiritual rebirth means emerging half-naked, sweaty, and humiliated — nailed it.

Kept trudging upward, fueled by the thought of my 7-Eleven tuna mayo onigiri. Finally reached the summit, took in the view, and remembered why people voluntarily do this sort of thing. It’s stunning. Shrines, tangled roots, ancient stones — like nature’s way of rewarding you for not dying.

Then my brand-new HOKA hiking boots gave up on life. Ripped, busted, useless. Fantastic. I guess I’ll figure that one out tomorrow.

Made it to Takahara, inhaled another onigiri (shrimp mayo this time and an egg salad sandwich — because Japan’s 7-Eleven food is a gift from the gods), and got picked up for my night’s stay at Guest House Kiyohime. And holy hell — it’s gorgeous. Palatial digs, and dinner? Let’s just say if I died on the trail, this meal would have revived me.

The owner’s son, a Tokyo sushi chef, designed up a feast that would make Michelin stars weep. Tuna sashimi and sushi, sukiyaki, tempura veggies, pork cabbage salad, and an entire array of tiny, beautiful bites I couldn’t even identify — paired with sake from Wakayama that went down smoother than my descent through the womb cave.

After a day of spiritual trials, busted boots, and flashing sacred monoliths, I ended it the only way that made sense: full, slightly drunk, and in bed by 9 pm.

Kumano Kudo: 1

Me: Also 1 — because I survived.