Shosenkyo Gorge The cliffs stopped me in my tracks

Drawn by the sound of the river, I started walking through Shosenkyo in November. I wore a lavender hoodie under a light jacket and held onto my backpack straps. Large rocks were scattered beside the paved path; even before I looked up, it already felt nothing like my usual riverside walks.

Near Kakuenbo, the cliffs seemed to close in around me. Granite cliffs rose high on my left; on my right, another rock face leaned towards the path. The trail threaded its way between them. I tilted my head back, but there was still more cliff above me, and I stopped walking without even thinking.

I'd come for the autumn leaves, but it was the shapes of the rocks that first caught my attention. The river carved this gorge out of granite over countless years. After staring at that enormous wall, I looked back toward the river, and suddenly I wanted to know more about the power of its current.

While I was studying the cliffs, the leaves at the tips of the branches stirred in the breeze. The rock face never moved, which made every shift in the leaves stand out even more. I stayed where I was, looking from the branches to the cliff and back again. There was so much to take in that I realised I had tightened my grip on my backpack straps without noticing.

I walked a little farther, then stopped again to take in what lay ahead without looking back. The wall that had towered over me moments before now appeared beyond a bend in the trail. The view really did change as I walked. Even after I made my way back, the sheer height of those cliffs stayed with me.

After the walk, I started craving hōtō, a Yamanashi speciality. Just imagining a warm bowl made me realise how hungry I was. I'd made the most of the autumn leaves and rock formations, so now I wanted to slow down and enjoy a proper meal.