Okinawa Hiji Falls

I have regularly visited Hiji Falls since 1995, when I lived in Okinawa for three years. It was long before they built wooden walkways and official trails at Hiji Falls. It was just me and a faint footpath weaving through the jungle, slick with mud, cool from the river in a dense, subtropical foliage.

On so many times, I’d wander to the falls barefoot, letting the warm, damp earth of the path cushion each step. I would prefer to go there early in the morning. Centipedes crawled on the ground, and large banana spiders had their 6-foot diameter nets spun across the path. I quickly learned to respect, but not fear, them. I do not remember ever being bitten by mosquitoes. Sometimes, the path was over river stones. The falls were deep in the hills. By the time I reached the waterfall, the outside world no longer mattered. There was just the steady pulse of crashing water, echoing off the rocks and trees. Below the falls, there was a 26-foot deep pool of water.

My favorite ritual was sitting directly beneath the 85-foot waterfall, letting the water pound across my shoulders, almost like a half-wild meditation. It reminded me of those Buddhist monks taking in the flow of nature’s power and beauty. In that moment, time blurred the present and the past. I could stay there for minutes or hours, carried by the waterfall’s steady drumbeat and the hush of the jungle around me.

I am writing this after I left Okinawa years ago, but whenever I think back on Hiji Falls, I can feel longing for the beauty and memories I have left there. It’s as if that quiet magic, hidden under the canopy, became a part of me—and though the trail may be more civilized now, I’ll always treasure the raw, unfiltered way I first experienced it.