Deep rumbling chants rolled out of the cedar temple, pushed by the rhythmic precision of the perfectly timed drums, as the Buddhist monk led the daily dawn service. The morning air was crisp and carried the scent of pine and earth from the remote Japanese mountaintop. Prayer beads wrapped around my left hand, 108 plastic balls reminding me of my earthly sins, I knelt Japanese style in a dimly lit temple wondering if feeling would ever return to my feet. Gold ringlets hung from the ceiling, radiating above a thousand armed statue of the Bodhisattva of Compassion sitting directly in front of me.

One hour later, my prayers were answered. The monk concluded the ceremony and encouraged us to relax our legs before he spoke about the Buddha’s teachings. Sighs of restrained relief and pain filled the dim temple as seven Japanese pilgrims sitting on either side of me shifted their legs on age golden straw tatami mats.

The Buddhist monk, dressed in flowing purple, orange and vermilion colored robes bowed his shaved head and said in impeccably polite Japanese, “Welcome to Senyu-ji, The Temple of the Hermit in Seclusion.”

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“Where have you travel from?” he inquired of everyone. He quickly put everyone at ease by commenting on each hometown and making short conversation. However, he only nodded when I mentioned I was from the USA.

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Pleasantries dispensed with, he began.

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“I hate America,” he intoned, letting the force of his words pound into the still air.

“If it wasn’t for America the world would be at peace. America has ruined all chance for peace in the 21st Century,” the monk preached into an increasingly silent room.

I heard every eye turn towards me. The temple’s intricately crafted joints creaked and moaned as the harmony, so valued in Japanese society, raced out the sliding wooden shoji doors.

Twenty days earlier, I arrived on Shikoku, the smallest of Japan’s four main islands, and home to the country’s most popular pilgrimage route. For over a thousand years, henro (pilgrims) have visited 88 Buddhist temples that ring the island, traveling in the footsteps of Kobo Daishi, the founder of Shingon Buddhism. Born on Shikoku in 774 AD, he wandered the island performing acetic rituals, leaving a steady stream of miracles in his wake.

Each year only one percent of pilgrims (out of an estimated 100,000-150,000 henro who perform the route by bus, car, train or bicycle) actually walk the 750-mile route. They hike footpaths that plunge deep into isolated mountains, through villages dominated by evergreens and rice paddies, and along a weather beaten coastline assaulted by frequent typhoon. Dressed in road worn white, they peer out from under conical straw hats that protect from sun and rain. Bell topped staffs steady their tired bodies as they transform Shikoku into a constantly moving human prayer wheel.