By the time I had finished walking through the sprightly streets of Fudai, I was stuffed. I knew Japan was world-renowned for its cuisine, but the dishes I consumed in this small village on Honshu Island’s northeast coast were, by far, some of the most mouthwatering meals I have ever had. 

“Oishii,” I say to Hidenobu Nakamura, a local shopkeeper who has generously gifted me a red bean taiyaki after I wander into his pastry shop. I take a bite of the fish-shaped Japanese confectionery and say, “Oishii,” again. The word means tasty, and that’s an understatement, as the red bean paste oozes out from the sides of the delicacy. Nakamura smiles and laughs, handing me another taiyaki, this one filled with sweet custard. He is eager to chat, but unfortunately, “oishii” is one of the few Japanese words I know. 

“Sumimasen,” I reply, which translates to “I’m sorry.” “I don’t speak Japanese.” Nakamura nods and switches to English. “Do you like it?”. “I do!” I respond enthusiastically. 

Behind Nakamura, shelves upon shelves are filled with a wide variety of fresh, homemade pastries. He tells me that this store, Shimokawara Shōten, has been run by his family for three generations. “I like when tourists come to visit,” he says. “Our hometown has much to offer, and it makes me happy to see others happy.” 

Continuing down the main road of Fudai, I pause to take in the heavenly scent of a savoury curry cooking. I must find out where that is coming from, I think to myself. I open the doors of Kamikanda Butcher and am instantly greeted by the owner, Keiji Kamikanda. “Kon’nichiwa!” he says excitedly and asks me where I am from.

I am clearly a tourist: hair is pulled back in a sweaty ponytail, my pants are dirty from hiking through mud, and my nearly 10-kilo backpack is filled to the brim with rain gear and camera equipment. I explain I am from Canada and hiking the Michinoku Coastal Trail with Oku Japan. “Oku Japan!” he repeats ecstatically, clearly familiar with the tour operator that has helped arrange my hike along the coast. The company specializes in off-the-beaten-path itineraries that showcase Japan’s beauty and traditions through small-group and self-guided tours.

Kamikanda disappears suddenly into the back of his shop and quickly returns with a small paper bag. “Japanese curry bun,” he says, handing me the snack — still warm. “Try!” he commands. Despite already being stuffed with pastries, I don’t hesitate to take a big bite. “Oh, wow!” I say. “This is amazing!” Kamikanda laughs, runs to the back of his store again and hands me another bun. “For your travels,” he says. 

My crossing through Fudai marks day four of my trek along the Michinoku Coastal Trail, a 1,025-kilometre footpath that weaves through Japan’s Tōhoku region, known for its craggy coastline, rich history and lush nature. I began my solo adventure in Hachinohe, a small city that acts as the gateway to the trail and can be reached in under three hours from Tokyo by bullet train. So far, I have made my way through the Tanesashi Coast, Samurai-ishi, and Kuji areas, which are located along a section of the trail known as the Sanriku Coast. Walking the entire trail would take between 40 and 50 days. I’m trekking for just five days, but I’m still racking up around 30,000 steps a day. 

Passing through rustic seaside villages and mixed forests of pine and beech, I have been overwhelmed by the area’s natural beauty and my warm interactions with the people who live here. Despite being an obvious foreigner in an area with few tourists, I have been welcomed with generosity and kindness every step of the way. Still, despite the joy of the individuals I meet along the way, it’s impossible not to pick up on the sombre history of the region. 

I was 14 years old on March 11, 2011, when the Great East Japan Earthquake occurred. The radio was on as I was getting ready for school when the words “hundreds are reported dead” made me stop what I was doing. Later that day, pictures of the devastation began to emerge as the full impact of the earthquake became clearer — overturned vehicles, debris-filled streets and entire villages washed away. 

At exactly 2:46 p.m. Japan Standard Time, a magnitude 9.0 earthquake, shook Honshu, Japan’s main island, most notably in the Tōhoku region, where the Michinoku Coastal Trail is located. For six minutes, the earth shook. It was a disaster that left Japan reeling, so powerful that its after-effects were felt around the world.

Within half an hour of the earthquake, a towering tsunami reached the coast. In areas like Miyako (located in Tōhoku), some waves surpassed 40 metres, burying homes, demolishing concrete structures, sweeping away buildings and smashing into the Fukushima Daiichi Nuclear Power Plant. Its cooling and power systems failed, and three reactors melted down, releasing radioactive material into the surrounding soil, water and air. 

In the days following the initial quake, hundreds of aftershocks continued to imperil residents while below-freezing temperatures hampered rescue and recovery efforts. 

A decade after the earthquake, the National Policy Agency of Japan had compiled the toll: 15,899 deaths and 2,526 people missing. Today, this quake remains the largest magnitude earthquake ever recorded in Japan. 

Twenty-five-year-old Masaki Maekawa was working in his office when the 2011 earthquake hit. “There was a very big tremor,” I read from his phone (we are using a translation app to communicate). “I never thought that such a big tsunami would come.”

Maekawa is an employee with the Fudai Village Tourism Office and was born and raised here in Fudai, a small town with a population of 2,300. We are sitting at a table just a few steps away from Fudai Station, enjoying a conversation while snacking on a delicious treat called dengaku — a warm and garlicky skewer of miso-glazed tofu. Around us, vendors are setting up small booths for a festival scheduled to take place later that day. The sun is shining, and cheerful music is playing from speakers around the town square — the joyful atmosphere is at odds with our sombre conversation. Maekawa clears his throat and speaks into his phone. “The shaking gave me a bad feeling that something was about to happen,” the text reads.

In the aftermath, he rushed home to his wife and child, then drove to his parents’ house. “The floodgate saved our home,” the app reads. “And the village.”

As communities across the region rebuild slowly but steadily, he feels locals are ready to welcome guests back to this very special region. “I think now is the right time for people to come,” the translation app reads. “We ask that you stay here slowly and enjoy your time.” 

I thank Maekawa for his time, and he points me in the right direction to continue along the trail. I pass by a group of children dressed up for the festival later that day. “Kon’nichiwa!” they all say to me in unison, “Kon’nichiwa!” I say back, feeling pleasantly stuffed, energized, and grateful for the people who have brought life back to this region after the devastation. 

Earthquakes and tsunamis are not unusual for this region. In 1896, the Meiji Sanriku Earthquake claimed the lives of 302 people, and in 1933, the Showa Sanriku Earthquake claimed 136. To safeguard the area, in 1970, then-Mayor Wamura Kōtoku pushed for a floodgate to protect the town. The community was skeptical due to the high cost, but Wamura was adamant. The 15.5-metre-high Fudai Floodgate was completed in 1984 for 3.56 billion yen (just under $35 million Canadian). It would earn the nickname “Miracle Floodgate” after protecting the residents of Fudai in 2011. 

I let out an audible gasp when I see the floodgate in person. Towering above the landscape, the structure looks otherworldly, like a gate from Jurassic Park meant to keep dinosaurs out — but on an even grander scale. Along the road leading to the gate, a series of tsunami evacuation signs directs people on where to go in the event of a tsunami warning. Looking out toward the sea a kilometre away, I struggle to wrap my head around the magnitude of a wave that could reach this point, let alone threaten to breach this imposing floodgate. 

Making my way further along the trail, I reflect on how generous people in these communities have been to me, even as they continue to slowly find their way back to a new normal after the 2011 quake. The images of washed-away villages, demolished buildings, and rubble amidst sunken homes have been seared in my mind since I was 14. Now, I am walking through those exact same places. 

“Where are you from?” Chiyomi Michiai asks as I take off my dirty hiking boots and put on a pair of slippers. “Canada!” I respond, turning slightly to the side to display the small Canadian flag patch ironed onto the side of my bag. Michiai and her husband run a small inn in the quiet countryside of Fudai Village, and I feel more than welcome in their home.

“Oh! We had two people from Canada last week!” Michiai says. “It’s good to see people here from all over the world.” She points to a shelf on which she has displayed a collection of gifts from former guests, including a small Canadian flag and a boomerang. 

That night, I shared my accommodations with a father and daughter from Australia. We sit Japanese-style on pillows on the floor and chat about our travels. They are also travelling with Oku Japan and have followed a similar route to mine. Dressed in kimonos provided by the inn, we exchange stories as we enjoy the meal Michiai has generously prepared: fresh whole squid, scallops, pickled vegetables, tofu, and the freshest sashimi I’ve ever tasted. 

In the morning, as we all say our goodbyes, I ask Michiai her thoughts on tourists. “I love when people visit,” she says. “I meet people from all over the world. And I can show people our wonderful village.” She hands me a bento box for my day on the road: a small omelette, fresh vegetables and tuna onigiri. I laugh and tell her that I have probably consumed my weight in onigiri after discovering my love for the Japanese snack during this trip. 

“Please do come back,” she says quietly, hugging me as though I have been staying with her for months. As I make my way through the quiet morning streets, I find myself tearing up, reflecting on how the people of Fudai have welcomed me with such warmth and openness. 

I’m sitting under a tunnel, hiding from the rain – the type that’s more mist than droplets, so I’m completely damp. It’s day five of the hike, and needless to say, I’m tired and emotionally drained. Every interaction I have had with a local in Tōhoku has left me feeling incredibly welcome. And yet, the tragedy of the earthquake is still visible here and there, and I know that the region still struggles to attract the Japanese and foreign tourists who once flocked to the area.  The battling emotions leave me feeling disjointed as I near the end of my hike.

The iconic Jōdogahama Beach is my destination for the day, known for its sharp rock formations and pebbled beach. But on the way there, I find myself wandering through the Tsunami Memorial Park Nakanohama, an open-air living museum with monuments and structures that detail the devastation left by the 2011 tsunami. Established by the Ministry of Environment, the park is built on a destroyed campground and is designed to convey the scale of the tsunami and its horrific impact on local communities. 

Plaques show before-and-after photos of structures like the public washroom, with parts of it still standing but now overgrown with foliage. “Evacuation from a tsunami is a race against time,” one plaque reads. Beside it, a series of images shows surveillance shots captured by city cameras during and after the tsunami’s impact. Looking closely, I can make out people who have taken shelter on rooftops, while others cling to telegraph posts. Leaving the park, I feel emotionally drained. These communities have experienced so much loss and devastation, but the people remain so vibrant and caring, I think to myself. 

The 2011 Great East Japan earthquake and tsunami resulted in the destruction of more than 123,000 homes and damaged millions more. The costs in Japan alone were estimated at US$220 billion, making it the most expensive natural disaster in history. 

On the final morning of my hike, I get up before sunrise and take a short walk back to Jōdogahama Beach for a swim. The day before, the beach was teeming with both locals and tourists, many of whom had arrived on cruise ships. But at this moment, I am alone. 

Floating in the ocean, I stare up at the sky, wanting to laugh at how unreal this moment feels. The past five days have not only brought me closer to nature and myself, but have also shown me the resilience of the people in the Tōhoku region. The Michinoku Coastal Trail is not just about the sheer beauty of pristine natural landscapes, soaring cliffs and spectacular vistas. , This trail is also a testament to the strength of the people here and their ability to connect and work together for a greater cause. It has been an honour and a privilege to experience what they have accomplished.