The Japanese are known for many virtues: fastidiousness, order, teamwork, modesty, manners, cunning craftsmanship, and a peerless gift for reinventing the technological wheel. One tends less frequently, however, to associate them with pleasures of the flesh. This is a mistake. Sensuality in Japan may be, by Western standards, of the quiet and measured variety. But it is no less real; the onsen, or hot springs, are proof.

Bathing in Japan is at the same time a meditative and social event. Wandering through bland postwar neighborhoods in Tokyo or Osaka or Nagoya, you find smoke huffing from the chimneys of unelaborate buildings, which inside reveal fine tiled floors, wafts of vapor, and hordes of nude, reposed locals. In such a public bath, or sento,­ the clock stops, tongues are stilled, and all urban imperatives are shed in the seething water. But the real meccas for steam dwellers are the 2,300 or so ­onsen scattered across Japan. Some of these are primitive campsites; others feature modest traditional inns, known as ryokans; still others have become gussied-up resorts that can run up to $1,000 a night. But even the latter onsen shun Vegas-like grandiosity or Michelin culinary pretensions. At any Japanese onsen, it's all about the bath.

Now, if you are like me, you loathe bathing. You wash yourself to get clean - not to "cleanse," and surely not to "heal," for pity's sake - and you do it standing up, racing the clock, flailing, and perhaps even cursing, all as prelude to a daylong frenzy. You disdain relaxation of any kind. To those who admonish you to take it easy, you observe that there will be plenty of time for that when you are dead.

But you know, deep down, that they're right, that you'd better slow down. Arriving at this conclusion, I sought out a place where I could suspend all animation without feeling unduly deprived. And so one fall afternoon I took a two-hour bullet train from Tokyo to the drowsy Gunma Prefecture town of Minakami, boarded a rickety bus, and, a half hour later, arrived at the splendid mountainous nowhere-land of the Takaragawa onsen.

The Takaragawa (Treasure River) shoots lean and fast through the spiny interior of central Japan. No one seems to know who discovered the river's hot springs, but it's said that black bears and sumo wrestlers have long been fond of them. In 1922, some enterprising family built two ryokans astride the onsen: the large and family-friendly Osenkaku, and, 100 yards away, the more elegant Bunzan. While each ryokan has its own gender-segregated indoor baths, the Takaragawa onsen earned its nationwide fame for its rotenburo, or outdoor springs, which are not only exquisitely framed by the mountains but are also ­gender integrated - which had long been the Japanese tradition, until postwar Western occupiers imposed their own moral code on the local culture.

The Japanese are etiquette obsessed, and certainly when it comes to bathing. Rule one: You bathe before you bathe. Rule two: In the baths, you wear absolutely nothing - women wrap a towel around themselves, while men make a lame effort to cover their particulars with a tenugui, or hand towel. Rule three: You bathe after you bathe. So I depart from my ryokan room freshly showered; outfitted in a yukata (a cotton robe) and slippers; and carrying only the aforementioned hand towel, a larger towel for drying off, and a hairbrush. As there's absolutely no English in the entire complex, I file in and follow the other prospective bathers who stride across the parking lot and through a door that leads to a dark staircase. The staircase spills out into an odd tunnel cluttered with heaps of religious artifacts and cheesy souvenirs. Then we come to another staircase, this one outdoors. The air is crisp; I can hear the frothing of the Takaragawa's rapids. I continue along the stone walkway, which soon parallels the rapids, which themselves soon grow calm.

Then, there it is, a great steaming cauldron framed by boulders and a wooden temple. Drifting slowly through the vapor, the bathers look like some ancient pacifist tribe. A very skinny tribe. In a nearby cabin, I shuck my robe and ­slippers. I emerge with the hand towel strategically splayed out. Then I slide into the water.

Depending on where you stand, the ­onsen's temperature ranges from 131 to 158 degrees Fahrenheit. It doesn't feel uncomfortable, particularly against the bite of autumn air. To the contrary: I am instantly disarmed. I float hippolike past the others, who are kind enough not to stare, until I find a spot where the heat is most intense. There I melt as the sun does, while the red and yellow leaves fall into the shadow of dusk.

A half hour later, I'm but a puddle of my former self. I shuffle back to Bunzan and into the men-only indoor onsen, a lovely dark, pooled area with a fine view of the foliage. Then I shampoo, scrub, shave, and wrap myself back in my yukata - which by now I realize is the only wardrobe required at an onsen, perhaps explaining the appalled gazes of other guests when I lugged my suitcase off of the bus. Rubbery-kneed and parboiled, I return to my room. It's properly minimalist, an expanse of tatami mats and sliding doors and mountain views, with a well-stocked minibar, a modern bathroom, a TV (with no CNN - a blessing, I decide), and a wonderful little sitting room. But all that enforced motionlessness has left me famished, and I'm relieved when, at 6:30 on the dot, a tiny Japanese voice intrudes.

The kimono-clad young woman is named Yuko, and apparently she has mistaken me for a sumo wrestler, for she has brought me more food than any normal-size person could possibly consume in one sitting. Cross-legged in my robe, I watch Yuko pile the bounty onto the foot-high table. A cup of salmon eggs with ginger, accompanied by an aperitif of plum liqueur. Fish paté. Two slabs of green and orange tofu. A platter of thinly sliced beef, a whole fish, and crab claws, all of which Yuko instructs me to cook on the small hibachi grill that sits on my table. Then: duck, melon cake, vegetable broth. Patties of squash, turkey, and bread for the hibachi. A plate of fish and pepper tempura. Rice. Pickled vegetables. Soup. Tea.

It's worse than Thanksgiving. Not wanting­ to offend Yuko, but also bowing to necessity, I apply a kind of triage to the banquet, concentrating on that which I know (the fish, meat, and soups), experimenting with the vaguely familiar (the patties), and shunning those which have long offended my palate (tofu and pickled things). The dinner is magnificent and at the same time devastating. Two full hours pass before an elderly fellow enters the room and assembles a bed on the tatami mats while Yuko drifts off with the platters. I crawl across the mats and fold myself into the sheets like a well-scrubbed, pink beached whale.

At seven the next morning, I again take my place among the naked. Somehow autumn intensified while I slept: The leaves are a deep rust, and wood smoke is in the air. Maybe a dozen other bathers have beat me to the hot springs. Although I take pains not to stare, I'm still struck by how mythic everyone looks in their serene poses, each steam dweller a shiny haiku. Whatever is in the weak alkaline natural springs, my skin feels practically preadolescent. Rising up from the water in slow motion, like some prehistoric sea monster, I realize, improbably, that I'm dying of hunger.

Breakfast is served in a public room downstairs. The dozen or so other ryokan guests are already working at their hibachis. A couple of them are drinking Kirin beers. I stick with green tea. Some fine dishes materialize - fresh-baked bread, corn soup, ­hibachi-grilled sausage, yogurt - along with others of the more esoteric, pickled variety. An American couple sits next to me. Starved for English, I ask them if they're staying the entire weekend.

"Are you kidding?" the guy says. "I'd gain 400 pounds!"

I should say something about the noise at the Takaragawa onsen: There is none. After breakfast, Bunzan takes on an encompassing silence, and its guests drift off for baths, day strolls, and … more baths. In my tatami room, I start pacing a little. By the second afternoon, the quietude - which I know is supposed to confer on me a greater spirituality, blah, blah, blah - is driving me a little nuts. So I board the noon bus and head back to the little town of Minakami, where I spend the afternoon shuffling through the gift shops, studying the sake bottles, and wondering what Yuko will bring me for dinner. Still and all, my restlessness isn't what it was. I'm walking at a medicated pace, sucking in the mountain air … and I find I can't wait to get back into the water again.

That evening, Yuko arrives at my door bearing unfamiliar fare. Valiantly she tries to translate: "This is river bird. This is tree potato. This is bear soup." Like the dispensers outdoors that offer the beverages Kopari Sweat and Blendy, and the shampoo in my bathroom with the label Fresty, I accept that there will always be an element of mystery to Japan. The meal, like all others at Bunzan, is delicious and overabundant. I contemplate an evening bath. If only I could stand.

The next morning, the helpful lady at the front desk advises me, through a series of painstaking gesticulations, to take the 9:50 a.m. bus to the train station and requests that I pay her in cash at 9:30. As I do so, Yuko appears with my shoes, which have been stored away in a closet all this time. Amid much bowing and stammering of thanks, I step outside of Bunzan and stand by the curb. Just before the bus arrives, the clerk bustles out with a bag of crackers for me. A minute later, she returns with a bag of oversize yellow apples. Thank God the bus pulls up just then, before she can hand me a gallon of bear soup. The clerk and Yuko stand on the curb and wave as the bus conveys me to wherever it is I came from to do whatever it is that I do. For at least a little while longer, I'm slow and I'm clean and I'm content to be just that.