Day 8: Kumano Kodo—Lies, steep hills, and the art of not pissing yourself
I’m a 50+ year-old with a backside so rotund it could have its own postal code, body held together by enough K-tape to mummify a small horse. And yet, here I am, still walking. If I can do this, anyone can.
This morning started with what I now recognise as a sweet, smiling lie from my lovely guest house host: “Today’s walk is pretty flat.” Flat like Dolly Parton’s boobs he meant. Every time I rounded a corner expecting mercy, I found yet another steep incline, and at some point, I developed a very bad habit—yelling “FUCK YOU” at the hills as I reached them. It was cathartic. Probably scared a few passing hikers. No regrets.
After yesterday’s shoe betrayal, I dug out my old HOKA running shoes from the depths of my backpack. Thought I had just been carrying them for no reason—turns out they were divine intervention. Like walking on air! Until I was walking through ankle-deep rivers because halfway through the day, the sky opened up and holy monsoon, Batman! It wasn’t just raining—it was biblical. The trails became flowing streams, and the tiny wooden footbridges (you know, the ones just wide enough to make you rethink your life choices) became Slip ’N Slides of death. One misstep and my fat ass would have been rafting down the mountain.
Toilets. Let’s talk about them. Before this trip, I read that there would be plenty along the trail. Lies. All lies. I saw two. That’s it. So let this be a warning to my fellow travelers: use every toilet you see. If you, like me, have given birth to two 13lb bowling balls disguised as children, you do not want to be caught mid-step on a steep incline with a full bladder. Trust me on this.
Somewhere between all the near-death experiences, there was lunch, courtesy of last night’s guest house (Guest House Kiyohime) owners—and let me tell you, they did not disappoint. Perfectly grilled salmon on a bed of steamed rice, pasta with meat sauce (random, but I’ll allow it), salad, and a damn chocolate chip cookie. Not bad for a bento eaten in the pouring rain.
Met a lovely guy named Robert from Taiwan who desperately needed a place to stay. Christine, a Chinese national from Atlanta, generously took him in. Camino vibes, but make it Japanese. The universe really does provide.
And now I find myself in yet another ridiculously amazing guest house, 古道の宿 GuestHouse ひよどり (Guest House Hiyodori), hosted by the human embodiment of joy—Aki. She poured me a bath to revive my aching corpse and provided a shower so powerful it probably removed a layer of skin. Heaven.
And then… dinner. My god. If yesterday’s meal was Michelin-starred, tonight’s was divine intervention. Brown rice with mushroom and chicken, black tofu, homemade kimchi, miso nabe with chicken, tuna sashimi, and the most insanely perfect tempura I have ever eaten. And then? Brown wine, flavored with Kisyu-Nankobat Ume liquor, aka the nectar of the gods. I need to steal that bottle. No one tell Aki.
And now? Bed. Because tomorrow, the hills will be waiting. And so will I, ready to curse at them once again.
