Kumano Kodo : Ohechi

I first learned about the Kumano Kodo—the spiritual sister of Spain’s famed Camino de Santiago—and felt a desire to walk its ancient paths when I walked the Camino Frances.

Recently I decided to hike it and arrived in Osaka. From Kansai, leaving the bustle of Osaka behind, I boarded a charming little train bound for Shirahama, its retro design and scenic coastal views already hinting at the journey’s quiet magic.

The Kumano Kodo offers two main pilgrimage routes: the forested, mountain-hugging Nakahechi and the coastal Ohechi. While the Nakahechi is longer and steeped in centuries of spiritual tradition, its ryokans were fully booked—perhaps a sign that my path lay elsewhere.

The Ohechi, tracing the rugged coastline of the Kii Peninsula, felt like a poetic alternative. With the Pacific Ocean as my companion and Fairfield by Marriott properties thoughtfully spaced at daily walking intervals, the logistics aligned perfectly. I chose the Ohechi, drawn by its windswept beauty and the promise of solitude along the sea.

The journey from Shirahama to Susami took an unexpected turn—literally. A fallen tree had halted train service for two hours, and rather than wait, I opted for a taxi, reassured by a sign that estimated the fare to my hotel at around $15. I asked the driver to take me to the Fairfield, assuming he knew which one. Ten minutes in, I realized we were heading in the wrong direction. I clarified: “Susami Fairfield.” He nodded, turned the car around, and we began winding through a landscape that felt like a moving postcard—lush mountains, endless tunnels, and the Pacific shimmering beside us.

But as the minutes stretched past 45, Susami still nowhere in sight, the meter ticked dangerously close to $100. I tried to stay calm, but the driver noticed my unease. With a quiet gesture of kindness, he stopped the meter at $85—perhaps acknowledging the detour to the wrong Fairfield had been his mistake. It was a small act, but in that moment, it felt like the spirit of the Kumano Kodo itself: humble, human, and unexpectedly generous.

The Fairfield in Susami felt like a secret tucked between land and sea—its boundary fence mere feet from the crashing waves of the Pacific. The rhythmic sound of the ocean was a lullaby, and the onsen on-site offered a perfect end to a long day.

At dawn, I set out on foot to Esumi Station, the sky still painted in soft hues of morning. To my relief, the train arrived precisely at 6:15 a.m., just thirty minutes later, I stepped off at Kii-Tonda, where the real pilgrimage began—boots on trail, the ancient spirit of the Kumano Kodo calling me forward.

The path was dotted with markers— guiding pilgrims along their peaceful journey. This ancient route begins in Kii Tanabe, nestled on the western edge of the Kii Peninsula, and winds its way through the heart of Nakahechi before tracing the dramatic southern coastline to the revered site of Nachisan.

Centuries ago, as the spiritual pull of Kumano grew stronger among the people of Nakahechi, the Ohechi route emerged as a favored path for those seeking religious asceticism. Its rugged seashores and the awe-inspiring Nachi Waterfall offered both challenge and transcendence.

Though much of the original road has since vanished beneath the sprawl of modern highways and towns, the remnants of the trail, cradled between jagged coastlines and forested mountains, offer a glimpse into a time when every footstep was a sacred act of faith.

Unlike the well-trodden Nakahechi, the Ohechi route felt like a forgotten path, utterly deserted—I encountered only one other hiker over the course of four days. The dense forest had been reclaimed by nature. Most striking were the giant tiger spiders, their black and yellow legs stretching across intricate webs that hung like veils between the trees.

The webs of the tiger spiders weren’t always visible—after a few close calls, I picked up a small stick and began waving it ahead of me as I walked, carving a cautious path through the forest.

The trail began to climb, each step demanding more effort as the incline grew steeper. All around me, towering Japanese cedars—sugi—rose like pillars. Their straight trunks stretched skyward, while the forest floor was full of ferns.

Every so often, the solitude of the trail was punctuated by small wooden signs—distance markers or boards sharing fragments of history. They informed of ancient teahouses that once offered weary pilgrims rest and warmth, or of the revered katsura pines, their twisted trunks bearing witness to centuries of footsteps.

After passing the Ago-no-Watashi ferry area, the trail transitioned into a long, winding stretch of asphalt—nearly 9 kilometers of undulating hills. The road twisted through dense mountain terrain, each bend revealing new layers of green: cedar groves, moss-covered slopes, streams and the occasional burst of wildflowers clinging to the roadside.

After covering nearly 30 kilometers on foot, the final few on the road to the train station, I had arrived at the Susami train station.

It was the end of a long day, and the promise of a well-earned Japanese meal felt like a reward. I wandered into a local eatery which was closed but the lady owner fed me grilled fish and sushi, without words, as she spoke no English.

The next morning, I returned to the same station, ready to resume my journey along the Ohechi trail. The sun had risen with quiet brilliance, casting golden light across the coastline and illuminating a small island nearby, where fishermen were casting their nets. The scene was so captivating, that I lost track of the trail entirely. It took a few moments of retracing my steps before I finally found the correct entry point to the Ohechi.

The trail began gently, flanked by tall pines and as I pressed on, the scenery shifted—pines gave way to a lush undergrowth of dense ferns, their fronds brushing against my legs. Over the horizon, the Sea of Japan shimmered in the distance, a vast blue canvas interrupted only by the gleaming panels of a massive solar farm sprawled across the hills.

I paused to take it all in, the contrast of ancient trail and modern energy striking. Then, as I turned to glance back along the path, I froze. A long snake lay stretched across the trail, motionless, as if sizing me up.

I snapped a photo, the snake, sensing my presence, slithered away disappearing into the underbrush. I exhaled and resumed walking.

The path led me deeper into a dense forest, where the trees stood like ancient guardians and the ferns unfurled at my feet, and the occasional shrine emerged from the greenery. Not a soul in sight—just me, the rustle of leaves, it was a good walk, unhurried and serene.

Soon, the scenery began to change. The trail led me past a mountain bursting with trees, in a riot of green that seemed to spill over the slopes. As I followed the winding route, I came upon a small bridge tucked beneath a highway—an unexpected portal to the next chapter of the Ohechi. Just beyond it, at the start of a gentle descent, stood a modest wooden box: the stamp station for the Ohechi passport.

Climbing the ridges, I fell into a steady rhythm—one foot in front of the other, guided by the numbered trail markers that punctuated the path like silent encouragements. The ascent was steep and persistent, winding through forested slopes and clearings.

From a quiet clearing, the ocean revealed itself once more—glinting in the afternoon light, vast and familiar. I recognized a spot I had glimpsed an hour earlier from a distant ridge, and now I stood beside it, the trail having folded the terrain.

A few more kilometers and the day’s walk came to an end: 27 kilometers to Mirozu Station. Thanks to the late checkout at the Fairfield, I had the luxury of traveling light. My luggage waited patiently, I retrieved it, caught my breath, and made a swift dash to the train station—onward to the next Fairfield.

I was amazed by the sight of Hashigui-Iwa in Kushimoto Town, Wakayama Prefecture—a surreal procession of jagged rocks standing in perfect line, stretching boldly into the sea. Right outside my Fairfield window, the view unfolded like a living painting.

These volcanic formations, shaped by ancient geological forces, resemble the remnants of a bridge reaching toward the horizon.

I wandered through the tide pools; tiny crabs scuttled between rocks. The water was shallow and inviting, allowing me to walk a fair distance out.

Over a hearty meal of unagi—tender, smoky, and glazed to perfection—I sat back and mapped out my next steps. The trail ahead, the remaining stretch of the Ohechi, was closed.

I set my sights on Nachikatsuura, drawn by its legendary waterfall: Nachi no Taki, cascading 133 meters in a single, majestic drop. It’s not just Japan’s tallest waterfall—it’s a sacred symbol, revered for centuries and nestled beside the Kumano Nachi Taisha shrine.

I boarded a bus bound for Hiro-jinja Shrine, it was packed with fellow travelers—pilgrims, tourists, and families—all drawn to Nachikatsuura and the legendary Nachi Waterfall. The ride wound through lush hills.

Once at the shrine, I stepped off and began the walk toward the waterfall. Suddenly, through the trees, I saw it—Nachi no Taki, cascading in a single, powerful drop, framed by the forest and centuries of devotion. It was more than a sight; it was a presence.

Through another stony staircase, flanked by towering pines that whispered in the breeze, I made my way toward Nachikatsuura.

Nachi-san Seiganto-ji Temple, nestled near the majestic Nachi Falls, founded by Ragyō Shōnin, an Indian monk who arrived in Japan in the 4th century, the temple originally belonged to the Tendai sect and now aligns with the Shingon tradition. As part of the Kumano Sanzan, it shares deep ties with the nearby Kumano Nachi Taisha Shrine, embodying the syncretism of Shinto and Buddhism that flourished before the Meiji era.

Seiganto-ji also marks the first stop on the Saigoku Kannon Pilgrimage, a revered route of 33 temples dedicated to Kannon, the Goddess of Mercy. Reconstructed in the 16th century after a devastating fire, its current main hall was built in 1590 under the patronage of Toyotomi Hideyoshi. Today, the temple stands as a designated UNESCO World Heritage Site, part of the Sacred Sites and Pilgrimage Routes in the Kii Mountain Range.

Having stood before the sacred shrine, I had a sense of completion of the Kumano walk.

The journey—woven through forests, coastlines, ancient paths, and moments of solitude—had led me here.

With the sight of Nachi Falls cascading beside Seiganto-ji Temple, the heart of the Kumano pilgrimage had revealed itself in full.

By now, I had walked the sacred paths of the Shikoku Henro, traced the coastal and forested trails of the Kumano Kodo, and stood atop Mount Fuji -- Japan’s highest peak.

Each journey had offered its own rhythm—spiritual, scenic, and serene. With those memories etched into my mind, I found myself scanning maps again, eager to find the next trail into Japan’s landscapes.