Pilgrim wanderings

The path stopped abruptly. I was standing at the top of a mountain in front of a traditional Japanese house surrounded by vegetable plots. A mess of canes, pots and trays told stories of planting to come after the rains.
The isolated farm was idyllic, but when you’re lost, it can be hard to see the beauty in things. Being lost during a storm makes it doubly so. I rounded the house several times in an effort to locate the continuation of the path. It simply wasn’t there. Soaked through, I entered the shelter of the veranda to knock on the door.
Nothing.
I blew hopelessly at the water running down my face.

It was a big house. I knocked again. No answer. I looked around at the array of vegetables as if they might suggest what came next but they didn’t want to get involved. As I turned back to the house a movement caught my eye. To the right, an open window showed me an old man sitting on a floor-cushion watching TV. I tramped over, knocked on the frame and shouted over the sound of the storm.
“Sumimasen (excuse me).”
Nothing.
“Sumimasen.”
He must be deaf. “Sumimaaseeen.”
The old man slowly turned his head, glanced at me, turned back and shuffled in his seat, fussing with his shirt before pretending he wasn’t there with more enthusiasm.

My mouth opened and stayed there. What do you do when you are stuck at the top of a mountain, possibly a different mountain than the one you meant to climb, and the only source of information is pretending they are not there? I stood with my back to the window looking out into the mist wondering what to do. Maybe he hadn’t spotted me and my over-sized backpack leaning through his window? One more go.
I knocked on the wooden frame again.
“Sumimasen.”
This time, he let out an over-exaggerated sigh, our eyes locked and he began moving. I felt sure he was reluctantly getting up to come and help. Instead, he flopped himself down flat on the floor. I stared at him, now prostrate, laying neatly on the tatami, straining to lift his head the few centimeters needed to maintain consistent television viewing.
I hovered on the edge of tears before deciding not to take it personally and, half giggling, half crying at the ludicrous scenario I followed the only option available to me.
I stepped back into the storm and started down the mountain.

Days later, I met a Japanese pilgrim. “I climb wrong mountain near Temple 13,” he said. “Man at top very angry.”
Perhaps this was a side trip for many who walk the Shikoku pilgrimage.