What a Friend We Have in Jizōs 39

Backtracking became backpacking, money laundering, and raccoons. Around the curve in the road from the Western Paradise of the Great Buddha, was the trailhead of the Daibutsu Hiking Trail. Robyn and I began a hot climb on the steep dirt path that would take gradually extract us northeast, from the sandy origins of the Kamakura shogunate. The many exposed tree roots, and the weight of the Ospreys on our backs slowed us down. But it helped us appreciate the quiet tranquility, interrupted only by the sound of our heartbeats and birds and chirping crickets, and the occasional fresh ocean breeze rustling the fan palms. Taller cypresses and other trees rose into the sky, above stone stupas, and groves of bamboo. Our boot prints hugged ridge tops and hills as they snaked through the green forest, grateful for the absence of other whiter serpentine movement.
Through the branches at the top, we had an expansive view of Sagami Bay, and a contracted sense of time, as we started our descent. The black lab belonging to the old Japanese woman coming up the path, had a red bib around his neck. Twenty minutes later Robyn and I came to an unassuming tunnel in the side of the mountain. Through the short dark passage on the other side, we emerged under stone torii, into an invisible grotto, to the sound of water. Completely surrounded by high rock walls, the space was strewn with stone lanterns, and stratified with tiered temples on irregular ground. There were multicolored splotches of orange and white and black and yellow pond koi, a bamboo grove, and licorice ferns and purple flowers under a waterfall. A regiment of local schoolboys, and their white shirts and black pants and thick glasses, had laid siege to the bottled water and more exotic beverages, on tap at the kiosk.