The people around me on the ride to the base of Koyasan were an amalgamation of every type of person I encountered on the train ride to get to the station where this train ride had started. Bundled in parkas and layers, small Japanese families, young Korean and Canadian couples, and solo guys with oversized backpacks were scattered down the passenger car with perhaps mild anticipation of the Buddhist village at the top of the mountain.

Two hours away from Osaka, the train pulls into a station seemingly in the middle of nowhere. We all collect our belongings and walk out onto the platform. Maybe fifteen or twenty travellers headed to the station's only exit that led to the station of an inclined railway. No other exits were around - we travellers were all destined for the top of this mountain.

We entered the cable car and spread ourselves out over the plethora of seats. It's another fifteen minutes, and we arrive at yet another station that exits directly before a bus stop. A sign at the only exit out reads, "No walking beyond this point." Amongst the other stationary buses and parked cars, everyone boarded the bus. Yet again, we were all destined for the village beyond the sign.

The bus ride highlighted the setting I and my fellow travellers would be exposed to for the next 24 hours. Giant cedar trees lined the road as it twisted and curved around the snowy mountainside. Snow falling from the trees gave the occasional glimpse of the blue sky above. The wind's chill every time the bus door opened pierced through my Canada Goose parka. I assumed this was the payment for booking this trip in mid-February during one of Japan's worst winters.

Conveniently, there was a bus stop in front of the temple where I would stay for the night. If Koyasan is known for anything other than its historical Buddhist history, it's for the stays at the 60-some temples scattered around town hosted by the monks that live there. As I stepped off the bus and rode towards the edge of the village, it was like someone accidentally sat on the TV remote, and everything seemed to get progressively quieter.

Behind the evergreens was the snow-topped wall of the temple I was staying at note 1. I followed the freshly shovelled path next to the wall towards the gate where an older man shovelled the snow. "Ah," he said as I approached, "staying here?" My 40L backpack must have been a dead giveaway. Or that temples don't get young adult foreigners walking up to them asking to join their congregation.

I nod, and he points behind the wall. "Register, please." He throws the shovel down and walks to one of what seemed like twenty doors on the side of the building. Like most other temples, there was a rack for shoes at the main entrance of the building. Two pairs of runners were nestled amongst the slippers for guests to use. From beyond the main entrance was a small entrance hall where a young, slightly overweight monk opened the door and invited me over to a table where he was sitting. As I ventured inside, I heard deep chanting from beyond the hall. Surrounding the entrance hall were small rooms where I occasionally caught glimpses of other young disciples sitting in prayer.

Registration occurred in silence - not out of utmost respect or anything like that, but probably because of the language barrier. Out of our mutual convenience, the monk had a sheet with all the rules written in English. He pointed to each rule individually and looked at me with a smile. I nodded back with a smile as each rule seemed to get progressively restrictive. No wearing outside shoes. Makes sense. Dinner is mandatory and starts at 5PM. Mandatory food? Yes, please! All guests must join the morning prayer at precisely 6AM. Well, there were some concessions to be made; it was another day of the trip where I would have to set my wake-up alarm.

The monk showed me to my room for the night: through another hall (which I guessed was where celebrations took place but actually ended up being the kitchen) and up the stairs. The first door already had two slippers in front of it - the couple whose shoes I saw earlier. I end up staying in the next room over.

I remember seeing the tree silhouette in the courtyard as the sun broke through the clouds and beamed into the room, settling invitingly on a kotatsu resting on the tatami note 2. The monk toured me around the room, sufficiently sized for a single person travelling, and pointed at a sign reminding guests that dinner was at 5PM. As he closed the door, I finally noticed how warm the room was - temples, like most old buildings in Japan, do not have central heating. Heat was usually sourced from items like butane space heaters. If nothing like that was around, you would notice the lack of heat in the harsh, cold winters. The sun, however, had brought with it its radiant warmth. Taking off my parka and moving the kotatsu, I lay on the warm tatami. I admired the blue sky and snow-covered tree branches just outside the window. The winter sun covered me with its refreshing warmth and golden hues. The quietness was well-deserved; you would have to be straining to try and hear the noises from next door or the chanting from the temple below.

The door slamming next door woke me from the first of many transcendent naps at this temple. It was a 20-minute nap, but I woke up like I had the best sleep in the world note 3. It was just after 3PM, and I remembered reading online that the temple I was staying at was next to Okunoin, the largest cemetery in the country. 'I remembered' was the critical point: there was no Wi-Fi at this temple, and neither 4G nor LTE was hitting my personal Wi-Fi device. Finally, or tragically, depending on your perspective of things, I was forcibly disconnected from the rest of the world for the next 24 hours.

It was still relatively cold, but now that the sun had come out, the 20-minute walk to the entrance to the cemetery felt invigorating. Few people were milling around, primarily locals shovelling the sidewalks. However, having come from the tourist-heavy areas of Tokyo, Kyoto, and Osaka, it brought a new perspective on the busyness of urban culture in Japan. When I reached the entrance of Okunoin and its line of tombstones and lanterns heading into the cemetery, I finally saw (maybe) less than a handful of tourists.

The pathway into Okunoin meandered through the snow-covered ground and snow-topped tombstones before journeying into the forest of Japanese cedars - as significant as the West Coast redwood - where even more shrines and tombstones were scattered. The sun was setting early, and beams of golden rays shot across the path; snowflakes appeared suspended in the beams of light as though they were the resident spirits floating peacefully above the ground. The sound of footsteps imprinting the snow or the snapping of twigs and branches broke the tranquil quietness that haunted the woodland.

Getting lost in the beauty of the surroundings and the hosted serenity is easy. Many tourists come here to see the temples and mausoleums that house essential figures of the Japanese Buddhist faith. Some see the graves of important Japanese individuals like Basho, the famous Japanese poet known for his haikus. While I may have considered those points when I thought of coming to Okunoin, they were set aside in favour of almost mindless wandering through the stone-and-tree wilderness note 4. As I crossed the Gobyonohashi Bridge that led to the Okunoin temple proper, a monk recited a short prayer towards me, and it was at that point a mild shudder waved through my body - and then I was perhaps at the most serene state of mind that I had ever been in for a long while.