Atop a blustery grassy lookout high atop the Kitayamazaki Cliffs, a comical young fisherman and his girlfriend sold us raw-milk soft serve ice cream with spoons made from black kombu seaweed. Totally drunk at 10 a.m., they were cutting up and portioning freshly dried seaweed into bags and cracking jokes in English. Eventually he removed his cigarette and asked, “Are you going to visit the tsunami memorials?” I nodded but said nothing, not wanting to kill the jovial mood.
The farther south we traveled, the worse the tsunami damage became. We reached Takada Matsubara Tsunami Reconstruction Memorial Park, an austere elegy designed by architect Hiroshi Naito. The elongated white museum sprawled across a field that waves had stripped bare. A slim bridge led to the seawall, where we walked until we couldn’t stand the cold. Nearby lay the ruins of a youth hostel, half-sunken in an estuary. Controversially, many of the damaged buildings have been intentionally left as reminders of what happened here.
Miyagi prefecture, farther south, suffered the most casualties. We stopped at the former Kadonowaki Elementary School and the Ishinomaki Minamihama Tsunami Memorial Park. Ground-floor classrooms had piles of debris; others on the upper floors were untouched, with notebooks still open on abandoned desks.
This stretch of coast now has so many memorials—61, to be exact—that it’s called 3.11 Densho Road, a name that combines the date of the disaster with a word meaning “to pass on to the next generation.” These sites are places of mourning, but they are also places of learning, with museums and educational centers that aim to mitigate future disasters. They embody the resilient Tohoku spirit of enduring suffering with patience and dignity while also striving to move on.
Moving on is what I did too. In the picturesque port town of Matsushima, I said goodbye to Quinlan before exploring the city’s busy shrines, parks, and temples on my own. That night at a bustling izakaya counter over tuna sashimi and agedashi dofu—golden pillows of fried tofu in warm dashi broth—I felt grateful to be back in the present. My trek had opened my eyes to both joy and suffering, giving me souvenirs I’ll cherish forever: the moss deep in the woods, the quiet black pony, the jovial young fisherman.
Remote Lands can organize trips throughout Japan, including a guided trek along the new Michinoku Coastal Trail (from $11,000 for four nights; remotelands.com). This article appeared in the November 2025 issue of Condé Nast Traveler. Subscribe to the magazine here.
