No.11 Return to Togakushi: A Journey Through Time and Taste

The bus from Nagano Station climbs steadily for an hour, winding through city streets before ascending a serpentine loop bridge. As we rise, the landscape transforms—summer greens giving way to autumn's palette of rust and gold. Once, I drove this treacherous mountain road myself, white-knuckled through hairpin turns. Now, I sit back and let the bus do the work.

Near Okubo Teahouse, the Northern Alps emerge in the distance, their snow-capped peaks glittering against the cobalt sky. Around me, passengers rush to capture the moment on their phones, screens glowing with the same wonder I feel.

Togakushi.

Twenty years since my last visit.

The Taste of Memory

I've lived in Okinawa for a quarter-century now. The turquoise ocean, the warm climate, the gentle rhythm of island life—I want for nothing. Yet there are certain cravings that surface without warning, deep and primal.

The craving for Togakushi soba.

Not just any noodles, but these noodles—buckwheat cut so fine they shimmer, served on bamboo trays in a mountain village where the air itself seems to sharpen every flavor. The subtle, earthy aroma. The satisfying texture. The way they slide down your throat, cool and clean as spring water.

Twenty years is too long to wait for something you love.

As I step off the bus at 1,200 meters elevation, the mountain air wraps around me like a benediction. One breath, and I feel cleansed from the inside out.

Entering Sacred Ground

The massive wooden torii gate towers before me, its weathered posts framing a stone stairway that disappears into dense forest. I bow before passing through, as my father taught me decades ago.

Immediately, the temperature drops.

The air grows damp and cool. Leaves rustle overhead with an ancient, whispering sound. I can feel it in my bones: beyond this gate lies territory that doesn't quite belong to the human world.

The stone steps are steep. Around me, cryptomeria trees rise like cathedral pillars, their massive trunks so thick that three adults couldn't link hands around them. "Yoisho," I grunt with each step—the universal sound of middle-aged exertion. But as I climb, something lifts from my shoulders. The petty worries, the lingering stress of retirement planning, the noise of modern life—all of it falls away.

Perhaps the climb itself is a form of purification.

At the top, I stand before the sacred tree of the inner shrine—a cryptomeria said to be 700, perhaps 800 years old. Its bark is deeply furrowed, scarred by countless winters. A thick sacred rope encircles its trunk. I crane my neck back until it aches, trying to take in the full height of this living monument.

Standing before it, I feel achingly small. And strangely, wonderfully insignificant.

The tree says nothing, yet somehow, everything.

Iwatoya: Coming Home

My first destination is Iwatoya, a soba shop near the middle shrine that I haven't seen in two decades.

The moment I spot its weathered sign—"Original Togakushi Hand-Cut Soba"—and the vivid green noren curtain fluttering in the breeze, memory floods back. This place hasn't changed. Not one bit.

I could walk into a modern, Instagram-perfect restaurant anywhere. But what I need today isn't sophistication. It's the feeling of coming home.

"Large cold soba," I tell the server without hesitation.

When the tray arrives, I actually smile.

There it is.

The soba lies arranged on a circular bamboo tray in the traditional bocchi style—small bundles of noodles glistening with moisture, each portion perfectly sized for a single bite. They look almost too beautiful to eat. Almost.

But what really touches me are the small dishes that accompany the soba: pickled nozawana greens and simmered mountain vegetables. Simple, unassuming, yet bursting with the taste of Nagano's mountains. This kind of quiet hospitality—this attention to detail—is what makes a restaurant unforgettable.

I lift one bundle with my chopsticks, dip it halfway into the tsuyu broth, and slurp it down in one motion.

The cold water-shocked noodles have perfect snap. The buckwheat flavor unfolds on my tongue, subtly sweet, unmistakably right.

"Umai..." I whisper. Delicious.

My body knew what it needed before my mind did. I alternate between bites of soba and crunchy pickles, falling into a rhythm that feels like meditation. Even the large portion disappears faster than seems possible.

This is the magic of Togakushi—the harsh mountain climate, the pristine water, the generations of skill. Everything must align to create this miracle of flavor.

By the time I finish the seventh bundle, happiness radiates from somewhere deep inside my chest.

Soba no Mi: Where Tradition Meets Perfection

Next, I head to Soba no Mi, another renowned shop whose white noren curtain bears bold calligraphy. I push through the heavy wooden door.

Despite the early hour on a weekday, the parking lot is full. A line of people waits outside. Twenty years ago, you could walk right in. Now it's become a pilgrimage site.

When my name is finally called, I order the large zaru-toro—cold soba with grated mountain yam.

The noodles arrive arranged in an elegant arc on a round bamboo tray, accompanied by a generous bowl of silky tororo. I lift a bundle, drag it through the viscous yam, and guide it into my mouth.

The wild, earthy aroma of buckwheat mingles with the smooth, slippery texture of tororo, and together they race down my throat. These noodles are slightly thicker than Iwatoya's—more substantial, more assertive. With each chew, sweetness blooms.

Every shop has its philosophy, its pride. Discovering these subtle differences is part of the joy of a soba pilgrimage.

The Path to Okusha: Walking Through Time

My final destination is Okusha—the inner shrine deep in the forest. This is the true reason I came.

At the entrance, a weathered stone marker reads "Geba"—dismount. In ancient times, even nobility had to leave their horses here and walk the rest of the way on foot. Today, we arrive by bus and car, but the principle remains: beyond this point, titles and status mean nothing. We enter as we truly are—small, mortal, human.

The beginning of the path is surprisingly gentle. A clear stream babbles alongside. Sunlight filters through a canopy of broadleaf trees, dappling the trail with gold. My footsteps crunch rhythmically on the gravel: zaku, zaku, zaku.

I breathe deeply. The air tastes of moss and cedar and something ineffably green.

Then I pass through the vermilion Zuishinmon gate, and everything changes.

The temperature drops noticeably—perhaps by a full degree. And before me rises a cathedral of giants.

The cryptomeria avenue.

Four hundred years old. Five hundred meters long. Trees so massive that several adults couldn't link hands around them. They stand in perfect formation, their trunks rising straight and true toward a sky I can barely see through the dense canopy.

I stop walking. I can't help it.

The scale overwhelms. The silence presses against my ears. In the presence of these trees—beings that have lived through centuries of human drama—my entire life feels like a blink. A heartbeat. A single drawn breath.

The deadlines I worried about. The papers I stressed over. The professional anxieties that kept me up at night. All of it shrinks to nothing beneath these ancient boughs.

I walk slowly, reverently. My footsteps make no sound on the soft earth.

By the time I reach the main hall of Okusha, my legs ache pleasantly, but my mind feels lighter than it has in years.

Twenty years since my last visit to Togakushi.

Just walking this cedar avenue made the entire journey worthwhile.

"I'll be back," I whisper to the mountains as I board the return bus.

The Journey Home

The bus pulls away. Through the window, the scenery slides past—autumn leaves, the cedar grove, the torii gate of the middle shrine, and far beyond, the white peaks of the Northern Alps catching the afternoon light.

I close my eyes.

Somewhere in the corners of my memory, I can still smell buckwheat and mountain air, still feel the cool shade of those ancient trees.

Some journeys aren't about reaching a destination. They're about remembering who you were, who you are, and who you might still become.

The road winds downward, back toward Nagano, back toward the train that will take me home to Okinawa.

But part of me remains here, in Togakushi, walking forever through that corridor of giants.

From the memoirs of a retired professor