A World of One Color

Winter strips Mount Takao down to its essentials. I took the trail up on a weekday in winter. There were no school groups, no snack stands, no crowds, just snow and lots of it. The climb asks for focus—snow blurs the path just enough to make each step a choice. Roots, stones, slick wooden stairs.

The trail near Biwa Falls follows along the water, just off the main approach to Mount Takao. Monks still come here to train, standing beneath the cold stream in meditation, and their presence seems to linger. The path would sometimes becomes slippery and narrow, shaded by tall cedars, with the steady rush of the falls acting as a kind of background hum. By my focus kept return to my sliding feet, as the footing shifts between soft earth and iced-over rock.

Halfway up, the temple Yakuō-in rests under frost. Moving slower here because of the silence. No, not quite silent. Just the crunch of snow, steady breathing. Suddenly you're tuned to small things: the way sunlight amplifies the texture of bark, the mysterious profile of an entwife, the scent of cedar in cold air.

Near the summit, clouds often erase the view. But winter teaches you to stop expecting the view. The reward is the stillness, the uprightness of being there alone. You reach the top, lean on a railing, and just stand.