After a one hour bus ride on windy mountain roads I arrive at Hiruyu- an onsen town outside of Takayama in the “Japanese Alps”. An onsen is the quintessential Japanese experience: outdoor baths  with water from underground mineral springs. The ones in Hiruyu are known for their healing properties from the sulfuric waters.  It’s one of the things on my “must do” list, and I’ve come on this journey alone.  I have to admit to a tiny bit of anxiety because it’s the first time I’ve actually done an excursion entirely on my own in all the years of traveling together with my husband, Gerald. He stayed behind  to sketch in town because we were worried that the hot waters might inflame his  bad foot. I am well prepared. As with most things in Japan there is a precise ritual with “dos” and “don’ts”.  Nick at our ryokan has given me full directions as to onsen etiquette.  “Bring a towel and your yukata from the room.  You have to be entirely naked.  Are you OK with that?”  I smiled and told him I’m from California.

I am the only Westerner on the bus, but there is a video screen which shows the name of the stops, and a tape announces them in Japanese, English and Chinese.  Nobody speaks a word of English. As we climb higher and higher the landscape is covered in snow and we pass ski resorts and ski lifts.  There must be at least three feet of snow.  It is also raining outside and I’m wondering if I am crazy to  have come since the baths are ouside. At exactly the scheduled time of 12:40 we arrive at the bus station.  I approach a sales girl in the store which is stocked with souvenirs and local food specialities for the Chinese bus groups who pass through.  Slowly and clearly  I say “Onsen” with a questioning look.  She points me to another sales person who points upwards.  When I don’t understand, they take me to a third person who says “Upstairs, third floor”.  I’m puzzled because because I remember  reading that it was five minutes away, but I go up the elevator anyway.  I show the man at the desk my little piece of paper with the name of the onsen written in Japanese and he nods his head. I pay, put my shoes in a locker and then go off to the ladies section.

Two Japanese women are there and they show me how to shower and wash before entering the baths.  There is one long bath inside and one outside. I cautiously slide in, testing the temperature.  It is hot.  But where is the smell of sulfur?  Nick told me it was really strong. And he said there are several baths of different temperatures.  I’m beginning to think I must be in the wrong onsen. I’m sure of it, and get out of the bath, get dressed and leave.

Once downstairs I try to make myself understood and get to the “real” onsen.  Again I get puzzled looks until a young man takes pity on me and gets his girlfriend who speaks some English. There IS another one and it is in the Ryokan across the parking lot.  At this point it is pouring and the piles of snow have melted into lakes which bar the path to my destination, but that will not deter me and I slosh through, soaking my sneakers and grabbing onto my bags under the flimsy cheap plastic raincoat I bought in Tokyo.

The Ryokan is a massive wooden building built in  a Japanese style.  Inside I  remove my shoes, but I have a dripping raincoat and wet umbrella.  Quickly a young woman from the reception desk rushes to help me dispose of these wet, unseemly items.  It just wouldn’t be polite to come inside dripping on the tatami mat flooring.

The dressing room has a high ceiling with massive wood beams and is filled with young women, a few mothers with their children, and now me, the only westerner.  It’s confusing where to begin- one locker for the shoes, another for clothes and purse, and a wicker basket to store your towel and yukata. I have to wash, yet again- because that is the custom.  One of the ladies shows me a special cream to wash my face- the secret ingredient is horse oil!  In my haste to get to the baths, I inadvertently take the toilet slippers out of the bathroom.  (There are separate slippers  to wear inside on the tatami mats and inside the bathroom). I hope nobody has noticed, and I sheepishly return them.

Once oustside I find what I have been looking for.  Steam rises from the nine baths set out in an irregular pattern with a slight odor of sulfur.  The volcanic rocks are beautifully arranged to enclose each bath.  Between the shock of the icy cold mountain air and the heat of the baths, my body and mind settle in to the peacefulness of the garden.  Again I am the only foreigner, and a young woman starts to talk with me in her broken English.  We spend the next hour going from bath to bath, each one a little hotter. As time passes I no longer have a sense of time or place and just drift into the “nowness” of the experience.  This is what Nirvana must feel like.