Echoes of an Edo-Era Logging Frenzy
Earthshine reader —
It's me, Dazé, and I am among the fortunate ones who have felt the almighty embrace of Ghibli films.
For those unaware, Studio Ghibli is an acclaimed Japanese animation studio. Dare I say the most significant of its time? Yes. You see, this studio alone has gifted the world with a criminal amount of masterpieces — Grave of the Fireflies (1988), My Neighbour Totoro (1988), Spirited Away (2001), Howl's Moving Castle (2004), Ponyo (2008), Arrietty (2010), just to name a few …
I discovered this universe a little later than most, but ever since they've had a deep effect on me — picture the craters on the Moon. One of those impacts was introducing me to the Japanese culture and, later on, influencing my decision to sojourn there in 2017. This action would turn my life around, and eventually convince me to move there for some time. But those are stories for another time.
In this fifth instalment, I want to reminisce about an enchanting place I visited while living in Japan, one which likely wouldn't have hovered across my radar if it weren't for a particular film by the aforementioned studio.
It was May 28, 2022. My wife and I were in the midst of a ten-day road trip through Kyushu, one of Japan's southern regions. Our last destination was a piece of land in Kagoshima prefecture called Yakushima Island.
The seed allure of this venture? A forest far away from the concept of ordinary, capable of capturing people's imagination to the point of bewitchment. One of these victims was none other than Studio Ghibli's most notable auteur, Hayao Miyazaki, who left the island so inspired that it led him to create his 1997 anime paragon, Princess Mononoke.
Our stay in Yakushima lasted four days, but a typhoon reduced all chances to explore to just two. Despite this short timeframe, I was able to indulge in two profound shinrin-yoku or forest bathings. I shall write about the other on a later day; for now, let me take you on a visual tour through the ancient and mystical Shiratani Unsuikyo Ravine, now nicknamed "Princess Mononoke Forest".
We begin … up close.
These moist and silky waves are moss, and as you'll soon find out, it governs this forest. As an Icelander, moss isn't new to me, and yet this one has little in common with the one I'm familiar with. In comparison, the Icelandic is dry, rough to the touch, and desaturated. But although they belong to completely different climates, they do share a commonality: Both thrive on an island.
The pathway leading through the forest; forget about looking straight ahead while trekking through these woods …
What drew me to conjure this frame was the spirality of the roots and how they converge in a leaf bath, the shape of which reminds me of Africa. Upon closer inspection, I'm struck by the display of colours found in such a beaten part of the forest. (In the eyes of the curious-minded, Nature offers no trivial scenes.)
Each time I try macro photography, I'm reminded that the world is so much bigger than it seems. This heightened sense of reality unlocks one extraordinary possibility: to indulge in the perspective of a being from another realm.
For instance, a scene like this one makes me ponder whether humans and insects share the same definition of a tree. You see, our concept of a tree is way too large to be a tree for a wandering ant or cricket. In their eyes, our trees must be what we perceive as mountains. So when two ladybugs speak of a tree, a plant is more likely the reference. Or am I misunderstanding Einstein when he said that everything is relative? … He didn't say that? The press did?!
(Ghibli fans, wouldn't you agree that there's something, well, "Ghibli" about this image? To me, it speaks of innocence and magic. I envision a tiny forest spirit walking across the log and stopping for a rest below the plant — I mean tree.)
I spotted this mysterious den on the side of the path. Notice the canopy of tiny plants hanging over the entrance. Doesn't it almost look like it was specifically arranged there for decoration or rain cover? It's the type of detail animators love to create, and yet you won't any of their names on the credit list of this design.
A typical view from the trail. Of course, there's nothing typical about it.
Behold one of the walkways leading through the forest, except when you're there, you feel like it's leading you into a Guillermo del Toro fairy tale.
A mossy log deep inside the forest. The more I look at it, the more it convinces me that dragons are real.
Formations like these were scattered all over. In this instance, I see a family of four travelling forest spirits, the tallest carrying the newest member. The child in me likes to believe that if I returned there today, I wouldn't find them.
Hulks like these were another common sight on this walk. They are in fact the echoes of an Edo-era logging frenzy in which 70% (!!!) of cedar trees on Yakushima were felled to make roof shingles — ironically, this left the poor stumps without one. Notice those roots, clinging to the ground as if begging not to be separated …
On a more positive note, look closely and you'll discover that the death of one thing brought life to another. Stephen Barber, a trustee of the International Tree Foundation, made an insightful mention of this phenomenon in a post:
These trees were cut at 3-4 metres up, leaving a platform on which fresh seedlings would eventually take root, giving the appearance of regrowth. [...] you can see mighty second — or even third — generation cedars (and often other species) coalescing with these brooding relics, their resin-rich timber preserved for centuries under a mantle of velvet moss— vast, spreading, gothic forms in the primeval forest.
In contrast, here are a few lucky cedars that survived the logging. As to why they survived, the answer might surprise you; Cherise Fong distilled it in a post for the The Official Kyushu Travel Guide:
The reason that the forest we see today is still populated with so many ancient twisted trees is that these are the once "undesirable" yakusugi that survived that period of massive logging.
This makes me curious to know what the "desirable" ones looked like …
Another relic stump from the Edo-period loggings. But, unlike the one I showed you before, this one looks like it just uprooted itself and is about to relocate to the other side of the forest.
(Ghibli fans, doesn't it remind you of the castle in Howl's Moving Castle?)
When I learned that the average age of the cedar trees on the island was between 1000–5,000, a new sense of respect struck me to the core. It's hard enough to grasp the notion of something existing for a hundred years … but 30 centuries?! And you're telling me those don't even constitute the elders?! Wow, I stood before this cedar, and it saw an unfortunate being with a lifespan on par with a fly's …
See the mop-like thing in the bottom right corner? I have no clue what flora that is, but they weren't hard to find. I've tried googling it but to no avail. If you happen to be a botanist or have mad research skills, I beg you, relieve my curiosity!
(Ghibli fans — could this have been the inspiration for the design of Nago, the cursed boar god in Princess Mononoke?)
Imagine being a millipede in this forest; no matter where you go, you're confronted with obstacles, one after another, for as long as you move … In a place like this, having wings must be a privilege.
Is it a tree, a branch of one, or its roots? And is it dead or alive? I couldn't tell you. What I can say is why it caught my attention. Two things: the way it coils around itself and how it resembles the shape of lightning. Consequently, to channel this impression of movement, I composed it so that it travels across the frame.
It's funny. Generally, I struggle to photograph forests because of how familiar they are, but this one practically framed itself; all I had to do was raise the camera.
This looks like an ideal setting for an animated film about miniature forest spirits trying to keep their home together from a troop of overly hedonistic monkeys complaining that the water flow to their bath site isn't strong enough.
Of course, when a story proposes a plausible disaster, the storyteller must allow the havoc to ensue; otherwise, there is no story to tell.
Here's another story, this one "in medias res". Don't see it? The yakusugi is extending its arm across the stream in an attempt to greet its juniors and pass on the secrets to longevity. How long do you suppose a "branchshake" like this one takes? (This got me wondering if the concept of rush exists for trees … Then again, could someone with the lifespan of a fly fathom the answer? Probably not.)
By the way, I called the fellow a yakusugi, but I might be wrong because a post on Yakushima Town's website reveals that not all cedars are created equal:
Cedars in Yakushima over 1,000 years old are called "Yakusugi" and the younger cedars are called "Kosugi" which means child cedar. All other cedars, planted cedars in man-made forests are called "Jisugi".
Such earthy tones … I get the impression that an artist could accurately paint our planet using only the colours in this photo.
It may appear to be a flooded ravine reaching dozens of metres down; in reality, it's just a stream separated by two boulders. On a similar note, this place is called the Shiratani Unsui Ravine. Here's Cambridge's definition of the word:
a deep, narrow valley with steep sides
I find it strange that they call it a ravine because I was in there for kilometres and my perception of a lush forest never wavered. Unless this particular ravine happens to be a shallow, wide valley with gentle sides? Geologists, enlighten me!
If this were a scene from a Ghibli movie, the main character would gracefully leap off the boulder, land on the half-submerged rock, and kneel for a drink as their hair swayed in the breeze. If I did that, I would slip and wake up in a hospital.
And then, as the enchanting veil of this fairy-tale hike scraped my sweaty cap and receded behind my even sweatier back, I was out of the woods … and in no condition to recall where I had parked the rental car.
(Although none of the photos confirm it, my wife and I weren't the only ones here. Every once in a while, we would pass by couples and small groups — mostly Japanese elderly — and each time they would greet us with konnichiwa, followed by a smile. This is something I noticed about hiking in general: people light up. In this sense, Nature acts as a reset button; it pulls you down when you've floated too far, replaces the helium with air, and grounds you in the here and now.)
Until next time,
D