An onsen resort an hour out of Himeji, have been harnessing the mountain’s power since 1874, the 6th year of Meiji.
Before a short climb to Ueyama’s gates, we passed through an overgrown vale, feral in a bucolic way so that the tips of its grasses scraped us like swords and the insects feeding inside shrilled, a gauntlet of screaming enemy warriors, the forefront of the battle between man and nature. Tucked within the brush, family gravestones and wooden tablets inscribed with old-fashioned names glint in the sun, a quiet testament to man’s ultimate submission to nature. Yamaoku no kanji da—A feeling of mountain recesses. Here, on this edge of civilization, the people of Ueyama ryokan, an onsen resort an hour out of Himeji, have been harnessing the mountain’s power since 1874, the 6th year of Meiji.
My boyfriend and I finally reached the knoll upon which the ryokan has been resting for the past 138 years, and there were little signs of life—an old parked car, laden with dust, a pond teeming with algae. But the ryokan itself gleamed in white. We entered, and by the lobby’s hearth, a matronly woman sat reading The Asahi Shimbun. We stared, suitcase handles hanging limply from our hands, as she tore off her glasses and bade us take off our shoes, don slippers, and come inside.
I unlaced my shoes, feeling slightly uncomfortable at the prospect of leaving them behind, but for propriety’s sake, I shed my contaminated self and slipped into their shoes. The slippers were oversized, made for clumsy foreign feet.
Our hostess took us on a brief tour, which culminated at our traditional style room. It was cushioned with tatami and contained an alcove with a painted vase, hanging scroll, and incense, along with a table topped with a saffron dish of biscuits and sugar candies, and two cobalt, silver-speckled cups of steaming green tea. She had laid out two crisp yukata for us. Each plane of the room offered points of meditation. There was even a traditional-style Japanese vanity, kyodai tansu, such as seen in early 20th century films. There was only a toilet and a sink, so we had to douse ourselves with their water—drawn from the hot blood of the mountain stone.
Perhaps because Ueyama Ryokan is so out of the way, it receives such little business. We were the only guests staying that night.
I nearly fulfilled my dream of daily life in Japanese dress by donning my yukata, and in his, my boyfriend looked like a samurai. Together, we walked hand-in-hand to the outdoor onsen, and out there, it was as if we were the only humans on earth, just us beneath the mountain’s canopy.
After bathing, my body felt completely renewed and purified, inside and outside, from each little toe up to the follicles on my head. The privacy, lush nature, and mineral-rich water had washed away every knot in my back and worry on my brow. But our hostess was waiting to escort us to a private dining area, siphoned off by paper screens, with a view of the garden. There was already banquet set before us— flowers ornamenting succulent sashimi, colorful bowls filled with sea fruits, battered vegetables, exotic berries, and other delicacies. Yet our hostess brought out dish after dish to our table, and our glasses were never wanting for crisp beer.
We then washed up for bed at the indoor onsen and returned to our room. Finally at peace, I drifted off into a luscious slumber. The next morning, we enjoyed another banquet of salted fish and porridge brewed in onsen water, bathed one last time beneath the trees and singing insects, and returned to reality.
The whole experience was so surreal that as we left, we expected to turn around for one last glance at the old ryokan and instead see nothing there—perhaps just an overgrown, boarded up ruin—some fox spirit’s trick.
