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Map: Nagano, Japan Nagano's only-in-Japan touches
Breathtaking hikes, hot springs, temples and areas seemingly untouched by time.
Reporting from Nagano, Japan
Fame is fleeting, but mountains are eternal. Or so it seems in Nagano, the mountain-ringed city in the center of Honshu, Japan's main island.
Nagano had a brief brush with international fame when it hosted the 1998 Winter Olympics, but the city center has returned to its former self, a comfortably modern medium-size downtown spread out below the imposing Zenkoji Buddhist Temple. But the mountainous prefecture, or administrative region, encircling it seems ancient, with its Shinto shrines, hot springs and villages trapped in time.
Mountains throughout the prefecture, nicknamed the Roof of Japan, boast charms for all seasons, but especially before the June rainy season, which makes for sticky summers. Here are three day hikes, some of my favorite excursions in the last decade, easily reached by bus or train from the prefecture's two main cities, Nagano and Matsumoto.
Togakushi
In Japan's native Shinto religion, mountains can be kami (gods), and three Shinto shrines, each separated by a couple of miles, salute the region's holiest, Mt. Togakushi (toh-GOCK-shee, 6,270 feet), northwest of Nagano. The two upper shrines, Chusha and Okusha, are the more dramatic.
From Nagano, I took the bus up the aptly named Togakushi Birdline Highway toward Okusha, said to date from 849. From the bus stop, it's a walk of a little more than a mile through the woods, much of it along the 2,300-foot Suginamiki, an alley of towering 400-year-old cedars that's as rhythmic as a Venetian arcade. I paused to contemplate the impressively gnarled and intertwined roots.
By the time I reached the final steps up to the shrine, I was winded from the elevation, but climbing alongside me were obaasan and ojiisan (grandmas and grandpas), so no whining. The reward: views across the plateau to the surrounding mountains, not to mention communing with a kami.
Back by the bus stop is a museum of ninpo, the craft of the ninja, part of the campus of the Museum of Togakushi Folklore. In this cluster of buildings are shuriken (spiky, disc-shaped darts) and other ninja weaponry, but my favorite part was the "ninja house" with one room tilted on an angle (amazingly difficult to maneuver) and a maze with no discernable exit. The museum and nearby shops are closed during winter snows, although the trail is accessible to snowshoers.
The trail to Okusha starts at Chusha, the intimate middle shrine, reachable by road year round. At Chusha, a steep staircase leads to a terrace and a cryptomeria cedar said to be 700 years old. At the base of the stairs, stop for soba noodles, Togakushi's signature dish, served in a light dashi (fish stock-based) broth.
Nakasendo Road
During the Edo Period (1605-1868), feudal lords, or daimyo, and their retainers and samurai protectors traversed Japan using trunk roads. The most famous of these was the Tokaido, along the Pacific coast (chronicled in a series of woodblock prints by Hiroshige); another route, the Nakasendo, served mountain provinces.
Modernity has nearly obliterated the Tokaido but bypassed much of the more remote Nakasendo, making it one of the few places where visitors can still feel the presence of Edo-era Japan, even if the palanquins and rice-straw sandals have been replaced by backpacks and hiking shoes.
The best preserved of the Nakasendo post towns, where nobles bedded down between days on the trail, is Tsumago, now reachable by train from Matsumoto followed by a quick bus or taxi ride. The architect I was traveling with practically had to drag his jaw off the floor of some of the feudal buildings, especially the honjin (daimyo's lodgings). Tsumago is closed to car traffic, so the wood-fronted streetscape feels like a movie set. (In fact, several films have been shot here.)
The best way to sense the Nakasendo, though, is to walk it. Go to the next post town, Magome, by bus or taxi and walk to Tsumago, about five miles away (less uphill in this direction). Hidden waterfalls and swaying rice terraces along the route are great places to break. Even better, if you can spend the night, a stay at one of Tsumago's wooden ryokan (traditional inns) will take you back in time as tour buses vanish and morning mist settles in mountain crevasses.
Japan Alps National Park
The Azusa River runs through this park and the valley known as Kamikochi, nationally renowned for the peaks that encircle it.
Getting here involves a train-bus combination that takes almost two hours from Matsumoto. It's worth it. Kamikochi's peaks are a haven for mountain hikers, technical climbers and trekkers. In clear weather, from the summits, you may see Mt. Fuji, Japan's tallest peak, about 90 miles away. Even day trippers will find plenty to see in nature and the only-in-Japan touches along the rushing river.
Tourist hotels and restaurants around Kamikochi's bus terminal soon give way to a forest of cedars and sasa (bamboo grass). The mirror-like pond Myojin-ike is part of the shrine to Mt. Hotaka, as perfect as any temple garden in Kyoto. Ninety minutes more of walking along the river bank and you'll arrive at Tokusawa, where a hotel/campground serves simple meals before you double back to the bus terminal.
Kamikochi is accessible only from April to mid-November, but the rest of the national park is open year-round. Buses operated by Nohi Bus Co. run from Matsumoto to the village of Hirayu Onsen, where hot spring lodges and small inns soothe the bones of weary hikers and stressed-out city folk. There's even a hot spring bath at Hirayu Onsen's bus terminal. The inn Hirayu no Mori has 16 pools, indoors, outdoors and even a foot bath.
From Hirayu Onsen, another bus connects to Shin-Hotaka, where the Ropeway (a series of gondolas) takes you up sacred Mt. Hotaka. Views are breathtaking as you soar above the pines, and last winter I got the added bonus of hiking through lanes carved from shoulder-high snow. Just be sure to take the right clothing and especially the right shoes.
The Nakasendō (中山道?), also called the Kisokaidō (木曾街道?),[1] was one of the five routes of the Edo period, and one of the two that connected Edo (modern-day Tokyo) to Kyotoin Japan. There were 69 stations between Edo and Kyoto, crossing through Musashi, Kōzuke,Shinano, Mino and Ōmi provinces.[2] In addition to Tokyo and Kyoto, the Nakasendō runs through the modern-day prefectures of Saitama, Gunma, Nagano, Gifu and Shiga, with a total distance of approximately 534 km (332 mi).[3]
Unlike the coastal Tōkaidō, the Nakasendō traveled inland, hence its name, which can be translated as "central mountain route" (as opposed to the Tōkaidō, which roughly meant "eastern sea route"). Because it was such a well-developed road, many famous persons, including the haiku master Matsuo Bashō, traveled the road. Many people preferred traveling along the Nakasendō because it did not require travelers to ford any rivers.[3][4]
From Kyoto to Tokyo, along Japan’s ancient Nakasendo Way
Three hikers on the Nakasendo Way are silhouetted in a small shelter as they look at snow-capped mountains near Nagano, Japan, in April. (Peter Mandel)
BY PETER MANDEL June 12
The moon in Japan is not like our moon. There is no man in there, for one thing. No man, no horn, no cow.
It’s nighttime in Kyoto, and Shima Enomoto, one of my guides, is pointing up at the sky. “Can you see it?” she asks. “Rabbit making a rice cake.” She laughs. “Almost a cartoon.”
“Maybe it will take some time,” I say, looking above rows of buildings, trees with buds about to unwrap, and signs that flash their avenue colors into fire. “Tomorrow we’ll be on the road,” I say. “I’ll look again.”
It’s only day one of my trip, and already life feels strange. It could be jet lag, but the idea of walking through fields and over mountains and ending up in Tokyo doesn’t strike me as realistic. But this is the plan.
DETAILS: Japan
Walk Japan, the tour company I’m here with, specializes in ambitious treks, and I’ve signed up for one of its longer routes: the 11-day Nakasendo Way tour. My group will follow the path of an ancient and largely forgotten highway known as the Nakasendo. Starting in Kyoto, we’ll walk the more scenic, better-preserved parts of the trail through Hikone, Sekigahara, Magome, Tsumago and Narai before ending up in downtown Tokyo. We’ve been told to be ready to hike from six to 16 miles each day along a mix of lanes, gravel tracks, forest paths and cobblestoned roadway.
Dating back to the 7th century, Japan’s Nakasendo was once a path for shoguns, pilgrims and samurai — not to mention average travelers like us — who, according to my pre-hike brochure, wore out pair after pair of straw sandals on the rolling terrain.
Studded with Shinto shrines and statues of deities charged with watching over those on the road, the Nakasendo reached the peak of its usefulness and romance during Japan’s Edo Period (1603-1868), before steam trains and paved roads changed the pace of travel. This was a stable time for Japan, under Tokugawa rule. Arts like haiku, woodblock printing, bonsai and kabuki theater flourished in the larger cities. Since the Nakasendo linked two of the biggest cities, speeding commerce and messages, it was at the heart of this Japanese golden age.
One of the most exciting parts of the walk for me is the chance to spend some nights at wayside inns known as ryokan or, when simpler, as minshuku. I once helped compile a book about the world’s oldest family firms, and these traditional hostels popped up in the research again and again.
Sure enough, after trudging through bamboo forests during our first day on the road, we turn in at Masuya Inn in the village of Sekigahara — a minshuku that, we’re told, has been in business for more than eight centuries. Guest rooms at the inn are carved out by sliding panels made of wood and rice paper, and beneath our not-very-cushiony futons are floors that have been spread with tatami matting. No shoes are allowed indoors, and there are special plastic slippers for use only in the bathrooms.
Staying here helps us immerse ourselves in being part of a group. As will be the case on other nights, we dine at the inn, slipping on robes called yukata and curling up our tired legs beneath the knee-high communal table. One by one, we take turns in the Japanese-style bath, lowering ourselves into a cedar-edged tureen of steaming water and wallowing there until our road-tight muscles uncoil.
There are nine of us in the tour group, including Naomi Addyman, a British guide who grew up in Japan; Enomoto, a guide-in-training; and Logan Wong, one of four walkers from Singapore, who informs us that he owns the Yankee Candle distributorship there.
“Yankee Candles?” I ask. “In Singapore?”
“Yes, of course,” says Wong, who is dressed for hanging out in a food court, not for hiking. “Extremely popular there. Especially the lemon verbena.”
Heading uphill
We’re on the road right after breakfast the next day, taking advantage of a hazy early spring sun. Plum blossoms are just starting to come out (no cherry yet), and there are puffs of mistletoe in some trees. The path is grassy and mostly level this close to Kyoto, winding through rice paddies and around modest farms.
Carol Behm, a professor from Canberra, Australia, points out a patch of violets and yellow kumquat flowers, and someone thinks they see a snake.
“It’s a stick,” I say.
“No, it’s not,” Addyman says. “It’s a snake. But it’s not a dangerous one.”
Every now and then, the road leads us into tunnels of shade created by cedar and cypress, and at one point, we stop at a sign with a picture of an angry-looking predator. Next to it is a small steel cup. “Ring bell against bear,” translates Enomoto with a nervous laugh.
Wong gives it a pull, and the sound reverberates around, bouncing back from hills up ahead. “Not to worry,” Addyman says. “These are Japanese bears. They’re very shy.” According to Addyman, the signmakers should be more worried about the wild boar out here.
But as we begin to climb, no one seems concerned about becoming a snack for animals. Our focus is on learning to pick out the three Japanese characters carved into stone and wooden road signs that designate our route. The first symbol looks like a bird built out of bamboo; the second like the prongs of a pitchfork; and the third like Noah’s ark. Or more like half an ark.
“Meadow. Mountain. Way,” deciphers Addyman. “That’s the Nakasendo — literally translated.”
Each day of the walk, the road seems slightly steeper and mountains wearing caps of white step up to dominate the view. It may be because we’re working harder, but eating is on everyone’s mind. Meals at our inns have been like edible galleries, with a main exhibit (usually a hot pot) and interesting mini-plates presenting forest mushrooms, squares of tofu, or sashimi, on the side.
“Wish there was a convenience store near here,” someone complains as we’re picking our way around paving stones that were laid to make the path more predictable for tired feet and hooves.
“No hope, no hope,” Wong says. “But Naomi says there’s a Boss Coffee machine in the next village. Or it might be the one after.”
“Only in Japan,” adds Tracey Yeh, a banker from Singapore. “It’s vending and more vending. You don’t want to run out of change even deep in the woods.” Yeh pulls out a bag of Calbee potato chips: soy sauce and mayo flavor. “Want some?” she asks. We pool what we’ve got.
Wong breaks open a box of Pocky-brand snack sticks. “Rum and raisin,” he grins. No one has any rice cakes, but one of the guides offers around some deep-fried eel bones in a cellophane pack. To cleanse our palates, there are Kit Kats. Kit Kats laced with wasabi. We march on.
We reach the top of a pass, where everyone takes a break and where our guides point out a poem, a sad one, that’s been inscribed in stone. The author was a princess, we’re told. Princess Kazunomiya, who traveled the Nakasendo in the mid-1800s, when she was forced to leave Kyoto for Edo to become the shogun’s wife.
“Why compose it here?” Wong asks. “Well,” Enomoto says, “this is about the point where views back to Kyoto are lost.”
Shrines and snow
From this point on, travelers would have turned their thoughts to Edo (now Tokyo). I try this, too. It works until we make it to a town called Okute.
Here, there is a kind of shrine. It’s not like those we’ve passed so far: Most have been small and tidy, with well-made torii gates and statues, sometimes, of Jizo Bodhisattva, guardian of travelers. This one is massive. Most have had a sacred rope, a shimenawa, strung across the entrance. This one is hung with twisted branches and leaves.
It’s a tree: a giant cedar. So old, at 1,300 years, that it is thought of as a Shinto deity. The tree is watching, we are sure, as we slide our daypacks back onto our shoulders and return to the path. Other roadside gods observe our progress in the days to follow. They inspect us as we trudge up ever steeper slopes. They know what will happen: Since it is only April, we will walk in snow.
In a couple of the higher passes, we do. Everyone in the tour group seems delighted. Australians and Singaporeans scoop snowballs and study the structure of a half-melted patch that decorates the trail.
“It’s like Christmas Day,” someone says. “Christmas in Japan.”
As for me, I’m grouchy the second I see white. As a New Englander, I’m in search of spring.
When others are using walking sticks like ski poles, I’m chopping at the snow. Chopping and stomping. Trying to make it go away.
As we begin to descend, roadside deities regard us from their pedestals and temples — maybe approving, maybe grieving just a bit. Our tour, and the Nakasendo itself, ends in Tokyo.
From the outskirts of the city, we board a train and tick off some miles sitting down. There’s a sense of throwing off a load. And, maybe a little, of guilt. Once in the glass-box city center, we exchange our path for crosswalks. We trace the last few miles on foot.
Our goal, as modern pilgrims, is Tokyo’s Nihonbashi bridge. And almost without realizing it, we are there.
Once called Edo Bridge, the Nihonbashi was tapped as the eastern end of the Nakasendo during the 17th century. Nowadays, it is still a touchstone. Japanese road signs to Tokyo calculate their distance not from the city limits, but from the Nihonbashi.
The bridge doesn’t look like a woodblock print. It looks like a contemporary span. Above it is a highway humming with cars. But the cherries are out here. Blossoms spin and fly like confetti when the wind kicks up. Sidewalks, even gutters, look celebratory. Corners of buildings collect drifts of petals. Cars are dusted white, or pink.
Out come cameras and, from the bottom of someone’s pack, a single package of Pocky that we somehow missed.
“Have we done it?” asks Yeh.
“We have,” Addyman confirms.
Moonglow
Later that evening, to try and remember it, I make it back to the bridge. I find myself standing underneath a cherry tree that’s only steps from where the Nakasendo ends. Its canopy is not like the cedar’s. Much more delicate. Frailer. Like straw for sandals.
Through the branches, I see a streetlight. No, it’s rounder, whiter than that: It’s the moon.
I think of Shima Enomoto. But she has gone.
“Can you see it?” she would ask. I wouldn’t want to tell her. Eleven days from Kyoto, I have looked again. And what I find in the downtown Tokyo moon is not a rabbit. It is not a rice cake.
It’s a line through lunar plains and mountains. A path that may have snow, or paving stones, or shrines, for all I know.
The moon of Japan shows a road.
Mandel is an author of books for kids, including “Jackhammer Sam” (Macmillan). He lives in Providence, R.I.
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