10,000 Torii Gates ~ an epic night at Fushimi Inari
There is no other place on earth quite like Fushimi Inari. Around 10,000 brilliant vermilion torii gates wind their way up and around the Higashiyama mountains just outside Kyoto, each one sponsored by a person, a family, or a company, some for many generations. The Japanese call it O-Inari-san, a reference to the Shinto deity Inari Ōkami, associated with rice, foxes, prosperity, and good fortune. The shrine dates back to the year 711, and walking through it you feel every bit of that history beneath your feet.
On my first morning in Kyoto I joined a small group tour that set out at seven in the morning to beat the crowds. The air was cool, the grounds were still, and we had the place almost entirely to ourselves. We moved slowly along the lower path while our guide traced the origin of the shrine, and for about an hour it was wonderfully peaceful, calm and spiritual and almost impossibly photogenic. Just as we were leaving, the first large tour buses began pulling in. The timing could not have been better.
But visiting once was not enough. One of my goals for this trip was to hike the entire four kilometer loop all the way to the summit. After some research I learned that an evening hike after sunset was the best way to avoid the crowds and experience the trail at its most atmospheric. On my last night in Kyoto I set out at eight thirty.
10.000 Torri Gates
At the base, a handful of people were still taking photos under the lantern lights. But as I climbed higher the crowds thinned and then disappeared almost entirely. The air held the memory of earlier rain, dewdrops falling quietly from the trees above. The torii gates stretched endlessly ahead of me, each one framing the next, pulling me further up the mountain. As I walked I thought about all the people who had passed through these same gates over thirteen centuries. Locals honoring their gods, pilgrims seeking something, travelers like me simply drawn to the beauty of it. The gates are more than decoration. They represent prayers, wishes, and generations of quiet devotion.
The climb was not easy. Some stretches were steep and parts of the path were almost entirely dark, the heat and humidity of a twenty eight degree evening still thick in the air. I stopped a few times to catch my breath. But I felt something pulling me upward, and ninety minutes after I started I reached the top.
A small shrine glowed softly with lantern light. The night breeze moved through the trees, cicadas calling somewhere in the dark, ancient stone guardians standing watch on either side. I just stood there and smiled. I knew the climb had been worth it.
Japanese Lantern
The descent was where things got interesting.
Not far down the trail I noticed small signs warning hikers about wild boars, particularly after dark. I chuckled at first, thinking it was more of a rare precaution than an actual concern. Then I heard something. A rustle. Then a quick, heavy movement just beyond the gates. I turned, expecting to see another hiker, but no one was there. The sound came again, louder this time, and I saw something moving fast in the shadows. It was big.
Now, I have watched enough horror movies and Harry Potter adventures to know that this was very possibly the part where the wild boar appears, and I did not feel equipped to handle that encounter gracefully. I froze. Then slowly backed toward the nearest lantern for some light and waited.
And just as I was working out my options, I heard the unmistakable sound of teenagers, laughing, joking, and being wonderfully loud. They were French, and they were my new favorite people. As they passed I quietly fell in behind them, figuring their noise would scare off anything lurking in the dark. There is real wisdom in the old saying: safety in numbers.
By the time I reached the bottom I was carrying a full mix of emotions. Pride, relief, calm, and just a touch of leftover adrenaline. I had climbed to the top of one of the most extraordinary places in Japan, walked through thousands of ancient gates in the dark, and survived a possible boar encounter. Not a bad night.
What stayed with me most was something harder to name. The care the Japanese bring to their traditions, the quiet reverence embedded in every detail of a place like this, is something you can read about but only truly understand by being there. Standing alone at the top of that mountain in the dark, lantern light flickering, cicadas filling the silence, I felt it. And I am grateful I did not turn back.