JAPAN IS A COUNTRY OF CONTRASTS that coexist, creating depth. The light and the dark, the past and the future, the austere and wholehearted. I could seldom notice one without identifying its counterpart, a juxtaposition that distinguishes Japan’s cultural identity. Kyoto embodies this harmony like nowhere else.

Kyoto is unlike any other Japanese city. Spared from the destruction that Tokyo, Hiroshima, Nagasaki, and others endured during the Second World War, Kyoto retains its cultural and historic roots. It was in fact on the shortlist of cities to be bombed until U.S. Secretary of War Henry Stimson persuaded President Truman to remove it from the list. He believed if the United States destroyed Japan’s cultural identity in Kyoto, the Japanese would be more likely to side with Russia once the war was over. It may have held a meaningful place in his heart as well.

It’s believed Stimson visited Kyoto before the war and was gripped by its shrines, temples and meticulous gardens. Whereas many Japanese cities were rebuilt into what they are today after the war, Kyoto remains as it was. Its Buddhist temples and Shinto shrines give a glimpse into this perennial city’s past. I found these monuments best experienced not only by the sun, but also when the moon gives way to shadows; when the world is still.

After beginning our journey lost in the breadth of Tokyo, my friends and I traveled to Hakone, the historic onsen town tucked in the hills surrounding Mt. Fuji. From there, we trained further down the island of Honshu to the imperial capital of Kyoto. We spent our first night drifting around the Gion district with its hollow back alleys and tapestry covered doorways, feeling as though in feudal Japan. White lanterns illuminate stone streets and give the quarter a muted, incorporeal glow. In Tokyo everything is high, luring your gaze to what’s above. The buildings of Kyoto, in contrast, remain low and traditional, arcane in what they may withhold.

After stumbling upon the empty grounds of the Yasaka Shrine on our first night, my troupe realized the possibility of night shrining. I was reminded of nights when I studied in Florence, Italy as an undergrad in college. Sauntering home from a night out, I’d cross through the Piazza Del Duomo on the way back to my apartment.

In the middle of the night, I’d stare up at the facade of Il Duomo, no sound but the faint clack of my shoes resonating through the surrounding piazza. Something so grand and detailed seemed unreal, impossible to have been created by another human being. Where the Florence Cathedral serves as the center of the universe, where every window, nook and spire demand attention, the shrines of Kyoto are subtle in their rustic imperfection, a reflection of the world around them.

It was getting late. We were planning on visiting Fushimi Inari-Taisha, one of the most iconic shrines in all of Japan. Red torii gates serpentine up the Inari mountain on the periphery of Kyoto for a two and a half-mile hike. There was one train running late enough for us to make it.

We hopped on the train from Kyoto Station and headed for the hills, reaching the outpost station close to midnight. By day, shopkeepers and tourists occupy these streets. Now they were eerie, peaceful; after passing around some sake for courage, we began the trek: up the hill past the initial tower gate, into the darkness.

As we reached the first torii gates, we ran into two others who told us there were wild boars on the trail and to continue at our own risk. We discussed our options. We were already out there. Surely we couldn’t turn back now.

We lost half of our group after this news. Five of us stayed. We rummaged around for some sharp walking sticks and continued on.

We passed through the more than a thousand dark red gates; the moon illuminated their shadows before us, creating a weave of light and darkness for us to follow. The higher we climbed, the more alone we felt, the incandescent lights of Kyoto below us, a feeling of camaraderie driving us on. When we accepted it was just us, we broke out into a sort of tribal chant. It felt natural to dispel the spirits and the boars.

Almost at the top, we breathed deep. Clean mountain air moved through us. We were a band of brothers high above civilization. At the top, we sat on the stone steps surrounded by fox statues, believed to be the messengers of the spirit Inari. There was nothing but silence. That of the dark, natural space around us. We could feel the tranquility of Kyoto below.

My heartbeat slowed as the adrenaline wore off. Not a sound was heard besides the rustling of leaves. The brisk air enveloped me and gave my thoughts a deeper clarity. This was worth the climb, as though time lost all meaning and importance. The morning light was in the distant future, when the world would return to normality.