The foothills came almost to the beach near the station where the old man got off the train. He watched it as the doors closed and it started off towards its destination. Then he turned to the bay, walked down to the shoreline, and reached down to wet his fingers in the water. Luke warm. It was a warm day.
Turning, he stared up at the mountains that rose before him. It was impossible to see which one he was going to climb, but he knew how to find it. There was a river, and all he had to do was walk to where it flowed into the ocean, and turn right to follow it up. This he did. It didn't take long, not more than fifteen minutes at the most. Beside the road for cars there was a path for pedestrians. He waited for the light to change, and watched a couple of tourist buses three or four taxis, and several cars and trucks go by.
He was at the edge of a small coastal town that thrived on fishing and kelp, sculpting a quartz-like stone, and pilgrimage. The old man was here for the latter. In his hand he held a long staff, and on his back was a pack that looked like it weighed about 25 pounds. It?s contours said clothing, but considering the times, it?s also possible that it contained a small lap top computer.
Walking slowly he followed the pedestrian path for half a mile or so, then took a narrower path that branched off to the left and disappeared into the forest. This was the ancient pilgrim?s road, a sign explained. In a few minutes the sounds of the highway disappeared, replaced by the occasional murmur of a stream, or of the wind through the pines and the cedars towering above him. Breathing heavily, he stopped relatively often as the path got steeper. Soon he heard the sound of the waterfall, and it encouraged him to go further up the path towards it.
The path was basically dirt, although stones had been laid centuries ago for pilgrims to step on as they made their way up through the forest. His mind was filled with thoughts of them as he walked. There was no one else around. Birds sang at some distance from him. Occasionally he heard the cry of a hawk, far above him. The gurgle of the river, the roar of the distant waterfall.
Nachi. Sacred shrine, sacred temple. Here where nature and man and god fused into one. According to tradition, here well over one thousand years ago, a Buddhist priest had arrived from India. His boat had been lost in a storm, and he had ended up near the mouth of the river, and followed it up to the waterfall. Near it he had built a small meditation hut. Today there is a shrine, with a lookout directly across the river from the base of the waterfall. Close enough for the spray to gently splatter his face. He imagined trying to stand under the waterfall, with tons of water hitting his shoulders every second. Impossible. He wondered what the truth about the ?Naked saint,? as the founder of the temple was known to posterity.
Staring into the waterfall, the old man?s mind traveled into the past. He was tired, and he sat on a wooden bench gazing at the waterfall, and fell asleep.