Of all the items in your pack, few carry higher stakes than a headlamp. A sleeping pad that fails means sleeping on the ground; a headlamp that fails at the wrong moment can be genuinely dangerous. On a dark descent, rummaging around camp at night, or walking out later than planned, it’s the one piece of gear you simply can’t afford to trust blindly.

I upgraded to the Black Diamond Spot 400 from the Black Diamond SpotLite 160, which served me well for several seasons. The SpotLite was a trim, capable headlamp at a reasonable price, but 160 lumens shows its limits the moment you are route-finding in the dark on unfamiliar terrain. Now discontinued, it’s been replaced by models like the Cosmo. The Spot 400 is a significant step up – brighter, more fully featured, and smarter in operation. Having used it extensively since last summer, I am comfortable calling it the best headlamp for the vast majority of hikers.

Black Diamond Spot 400 Graphite.

Why Black Diamond Again?

The Spot series has been a mainstay of serious hiking and alpinism for years, and Black Diamond’s reputation in lighting is hard-earned. Brand credibility aside, there was one practical reason that pushed me firmly toward Black Diamond over the obvious alternative, Petzl: accidental activation. A headlamp rolling around in your pack or ditty bag and switching itself on is more than just an irritation – it is a potentially serious problem mid-trip when you discover the battery has been quietly draining for hours. Black Diamond’s lockout requires a deliberate hold of both buttons simultaneously. Petzl headlamps, including several popular models, require only a single long press to unlock, which is a lower bar than Black Diamond’s two-button hold. For a device that lives in your pack for days at a time, the difference is worth noting.

Main Features of the Black Diamond Spot 400

The Spot 400 is Black Diamond’s mid-range workhorse – brighter than the entry-level Cosmo 350 and lighter than the bulkier Storm 450. Its headline figure is a 400-lumen maximum output from a dual LED system combining a spot beam for distance and a flood beam for proximity work such as reading and tent use. The beam reaches 100 metres at full power, which is plenty for night navigation on most trails.

PowerTap technology is a standout feature that sets Black Diamond apart. A light tap on the right side of the housing instantly jumps to maximum brightness from any lower setting, and a second tap returns you to where you were. In practice, this means you can hike comfortably on a dimmed setting and respond instantly to anything requiring full power without cycling through modes.

The unit is rated IPX8 – full submersion to 1.1 metres for 30 minutes. For hiking in Japan, where rain and humidity can really stress your gear, this is welcome reassurance. The blue LED battery indicator gives a three-level readout, good enough to give you warning before things get critical.

The Spot 400 is a Dual-Fuel model, which means it runs on three AAA alkaline batteries out of the box but accepts Black Diamond’s BD 1500 rechargeable battery pack (sold separately) as a drop-in replacement. On alkaline batteries, maximum burn time is 2.5 hours; on the BD 1500, it extends to 4 hours at full power and an impressive 225 hours on the lowest setting. The BD 1500 also reduces overall weight slightly compared to three AAA cells. Carrying spare alkaline batteries as a backup, instead of relying on a cable and power bank, is a clear advantage on longer trips.

Weight with alkaline batteries is 78 g – actually a gram lighter than my old Petzl Tikkina 2, which only managed 23 lumens and had worse battery stamina at that. The headband uses recycled Repreve elastic and is comfortable over long periods. The tilt angle adjusts smoothly and holds position.

Operation

Two buttons – both offering a satisfying tactile click when pressed – control everything. The round mode button cycles through white light modes (high, medium, low, strobe) and activates the red LED night-vision mode, which helps preserve your night vision and is essential courtesy in shared sleeping spaces such as mountain huts. The pill-shaped main power button controls on/off, brightness (hold), and lockout. The right side of the housing is the PowerTap zone. There’s a brief learning curve to the multi‑function operation, but it becomes second nature quickly.

As with the SpotLite 160 before it, brightness memory means the lamp returns to your last-used white light level when switched back on, avoiding the mild frustration of having to re-dial your preferred setting each time. One small note: IKEA Ladda rechargeables are a tight fit in the battery compartment.

Lockout engages by holding both buttons simultaneously for a few seconds – a positive, deliberate action that will not trigger accidentally. This matters more than it sounds.

Button for power and brightness and round button for switching between LED modes.

The SpotLite 160 Comparison

My previous SpotLite 160 was a reliable companion for day hikes and shorter outings, and I would still recommend it – or its successor, the Cosmo – as a budget-conscious entry point. But the Spot 400’s brighter output matters: 160 lumens is adequate for walking a known trail after dark, but falls short for route-finding on technical ground or navigating an unfamiliar descent. The 400-lumen output of the Spot 400, combined with its PowerTap response, makes it a different tool for more serious use.

Black Diamond Spot 400 and SpotLite 160 side-by-side.

How It Compares – Spot 400 vs. Spot 400-R

The obvious comparison within the Black Diamond range is between the Spot 400 and the Spot 400-R, the rechargeable-only variant. The specs are close, but the differences matter depending on how you use it.

The 400-R is marginally lighter and convenient for users who regularly charge gear at home. The standard model, however, offers a higher waterproof rating (IPX8 vs IP67) and the flexibility of field-swappable batteries. For multi-day hiking in Japan, where you may be several days from a socket and winter temperatures can sap lithium cells faster, this versatility is key.

Furthermore, the 400-R is hindered by its Micro USB port; in 2026, carrying an extra legacy cable is an unnecessary annoyance. There is a bit of hidden irony here: while the rechargeable-only 400-R is stuck with older Micro USB tech, the optional BD 1500 battery pack for the standard Spot 400 charges via USB-C. Choosing the “hybrid” model actually gives you access to a more modern charging standard.

Black Diamond Spot 400 the best all-round headlamp for most hikers.

Final Thoughts

The Black Diamond Spot 400 occupies a sweet spot that will work for most hikers: 400 lumens, IPX8 waterproofing, 78 g, replaceable batteries, and a lockout mechanism that just works. It is also very good value in a category where it is easy to spend considerably more without gaining much that matters on trail. If you are buying your first serious headlamp, or upgrading from an entry-level model – as I was – this is the one to get.

What’s in the Box

Here’s a breakdown of what’s included:

• Black Diamond Spot 400 headlamp
• 3× AAA alkaline batteries (pre-installed)

Black Diamond Spot 400 in the box.

BOTTOM LINE

The best all-round headlamp for most hikers. The dual-fuel power system, IPX8 waterproofing, PowerTap technology, and a failsafe lockout make it a highly capable, reliable choice for everything from day hikes to multi-day trips. Compared to the rechargeable Spot 400-R, the practical advantage lies in replaceable batteries and greater flexibility. A clear upgrade on entry-level headlamps – and one you can rely on when it matters.

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* When you use our affiliate links to make your purchase, the seller will contribute a portion of the sale to help support this site.

The post Black Diamond Spot 400 Headlamp Review appeared first on RIDGELINEIMAGES.com.

Around 450 posts, roughly 19,000 page views a month, and a question I get surprisingly often: “What does it cost to run the blog and does it make any money?” This post attempts to answer that transparently.

To be perfectly honest it’s not something I’ve given much thought to, so I thought it would be an interesting exercise to break it all down and share the results. I’ll also cover the main platform options available to bloggers in 2026 and explain why that choice matters more than most people realise – it determines not just what you pay but how discoverable your content is and whether your blog can grow at all – before laying out exactly what Ridgeline Images costs to run and what it earns.

A note on currencies: my costs span Australian dollars, US dollars, and Japanese yen, reflecting where different services are billed. I’ve used working rates of ¥150 to the US dollar and ¥105 to the Australian dollar throughout. Exchange rates fluctuate, so treat all conversions as approximations.

In This Post

Main Platform Options in 2026
Blogging Platform Comparison (2026)
What Ridgeline Images Actually Runs On
The Numbers: What It Costs
The Numbers: What It Earns
The Bottom Line (Last 12 Months)
Is It Worth It?

Main Platform Options in 2026

The core blogging platforms have been around for a long time, and their relative strengths and weaknesses have always been fairly consistent – a free Blogspot subdomain was never the strongest foundation for a serious blog, even in 2010. Substack has emerged as a legitimate publishing platform for writers building paid audiences, and static site generators like Astro are a viable option for tech-savvy bloggers who want near-zero running costs. The fundamentals remain the same: the more control you want, the more you need to own your infrastructure.

Let’s take a look at the main options.

Blogger / Blogspot (Free)

Google’s Blogger platform has been around since 1999 and remains genuinely free. If you start a blog there without purchasing a custom domain, your address will follow the pattern: yourblogname.blogspot.com. It costs nothing, requires no technical knowledge, and Google handles everything.

The problem is visibility. Google tends to treat blogspot.com subdomains as lower-authority by default. For newer or less established blogs, the consequences can be severe. I checked the Domain Authority (a Moz metric from 0–100 that roughly estimates how likely a site is to rank in search) of a few regularly updated Japan-focused blogs on free addresses. Most had no measurable score at all. More disconcertingly, one wasn’t even appearing in Google’s index in any meaningful way, despite consistent, quality posting. The content is often good, but the platform is the bottleneck – and in an era where AI summaries are pushing organic search results down the page, domain authority has become more important than ever. It’s increasingly what separates sites that get seen from sites that don’t.

Bottom line: fine for a casual diary; a dead end if you care about search traffic.

Blogger with a Custom Domain

Paying for a custom domain (typically around $15–20 USD per year) and pointing it at your Blogger site improves matters. Your blog gets its own identity – yourblog.com – and search engines take it more seriously. Another Japan-focused blog I looked at takes this approach and has a modest Domain Authority of 16. The custom domain clearly helped, but the ceiling remains low due to a lack of plugin support and limited structural flexibility.

Bottom line: a meaningful step up from a free subdomain, but plugin limitations and platform ceiling make it hard to grow beyond a certain point.

WordPress.com (Free and Paid Tiers)

WordPress.com is frequently confused with WordPress.org, and the distinction matters enormously. WordPress.com is a hosted platform – you blog on their infrastructure under their rules.

Crucially, WordPress.com does not allow third-party plugins on most plans. This is a deliberate decision: plugins introduce security variables that a hosted service can’t easily control. For anyone serious about SEO, performance optimisation, custom mapping, or affiliate tools, this is a significant constraint.

There are exceptions, of course. A couple of well-maintained Japan-focused blogs I follow on this platform have been running for nigh on 20 years and have built a strong online presence – proof that WordPress.com can deliver results for broadly appealing content over a long enough timeline. However, a hiking-specific blog on the same platform, also long-running, shows significantly more modest numbers. The difference likely comes down to the “plugin gap”: a more general blog can thrive without custom SEO tools or mapping integrations, while a niche content site that depends on those features is working with one hand tied behind its back.

There is a business tier of WordPress.com that allows plugins, but it can cost more than a self-hosted setup while still offering less flexibility.

Bottom line: good for writers who want hosted simplicity, but it will cap you if SEO and custom features matter.

Medium / Substack and Other “Publishing Platforms”

Platforms like Medium and Substack have become popular alternatives to traditional blogging platforms. They handle hosting, design, distribution, and subscriber management, allowing writers to focus entirely on publishing.

The trade-off is ownership and control. Your content lives inside their ecosystem rather than on a site you control. On Medium, writers enrolled in the Partner Programme can choose to place their articles behind a membership paywall – readers who aren’t subscribers may be limited in how much they can read, with membership currently costing around $50–60 USD per year. Substack gives writers similar control – posts can be free or paid – but your audience still lives inside Substack’s ecosystem rather than on a domain you own.

For writers whose goal is to earn directly from subscriptions, this model can work. But for niche sites built around long-lasting content – such as hiking guides, travel resources, or technical reference material – putting articles behind a platform paywall can significantly hamper reach and long-term visibility.

Bottom line: excellent for writers building a paid subscriber base; less suited to content that lives or dies by organic search traffic.

WordPress.org (Self-Hosted)

This is the open-source software you install on your own hosting. You pay for a hosting plan and a domain, and from there you have full control: any theme, any plugin, and full database access. This is what Ridgeline Images runs on. It costs more and requires slightly more technical comfort – occasionally that means troubleshooting things like mail server configuration or DNS settings – but it scales properly. When your blog grows, your platform grows with it. When your blog grows, your platform grows with it.

Bottom line: the most flexible and scalable option – and, as the numbers below show, not as expensive as you might think.

Static Site Generators (For the Technically Minded)

Another option gaining traction involves building a blog as a static site. Emma Goto, a fellow Tokyo-based blogger, runs her blog this way using the Astro framework, writing in Markdown and deploying to Netlify on a free tier. Her costs are essentially just the domain name. Tools like Cursor, an AI-assisted code editor, can help maintain setups like this. However, the entry requirement is steep (Git, command-line tools), and there is no plug-and-play ecosystem. For most bloggers, it’s not a realistic option. I’ll leave it there – it’s all quite Greek to me.

Bottom line: incredibly cheap and powerful, but only if you’re happy in Git and the command line.

Blogging Platform Comparison (2026)

What Ridgeline Images Actually Runs On

Ridgeline Images is a self-hosted WordPress.org site, hosted with the Australian provider Panthur on their Business Bronze plan. The domain is registered through GoDaddy.
Paid plugins include:

• WP Rocket – performance and caching
• WP Go Maps Pro + Gold – interactive maps
• Jetpack Personal – includes daily backups and Akismet anti-spam

Yoast SEO runs on its free tier. The theme was a one-off purchase years ago. There is no stock photography and no outsourced content. All photography is my own. Route maps are embedded directly via RideWithGPS iframes – no plugin required. The RideWithGPS subscription costs ¥9,000 annually; it’s primarily a route planning tool, and the blog embeds are simply part of how that workflow connects to the site.

The Numbers: What It Costs

Several of my costs are billed multi-year, so I’ve annualised everything for comparison.

Item	Provider	Annualised Cost (Approx.)
Hosting	Panthur (Business Bronze)	¥25,000
Domain	GoDaddy	¥3,800
Caching/Speed	WP Rocket	¥7,000
Mapping	WP Go Maps (Pro+Gold)	¥1,000
Backups/Spam	Jetpack (Akismet)	¥5,400
GPS Tools	RideWithGPS	¥9,000
Total		¥51,200

About $488 AUD / $341 USD at working exchange rates.

For a site with over a decade of accumulated content, ~19,000 monthly page views, a Domain Authority of 39, and around 3,000 linking root domains, it has an arguably good cost performance. The hosting is the biggest single line item, and even that – billed over three years – works out to just under ¥25,000 annually.

The Numbers: What It Earns

The blog generates income from three main sources. To keep the site running, I use affiliate links for some gear and map recommendations – if you click through and make a purchase, I receive a small commission at no extra cost to you.

• Ko-fi – Readers can support the blog directly via one-off tips or digital products. Over the past 12 months, this came to ¥28,500 – 57 Ko-fi payments in total.

• Affiliate Commissions – Earned from gear recommendations, maps, and related products – the lion’s share from Amazon Associates Japan, plus some referrals via Cocoheli. This generated ¥56,200 – completely passive once the links are in place.

• Patreon – A small, committed group of monthly supporters. This brought in approximately ¥88,200 ($588 USD), making it the largest tracked online stream.

Guided Hiking Tours – The blog also generates business for guided hiking in the Kanto region. I keep specific figures private – it remains a side gig alongside my regular high school teaching job – but it is the income stream most dependent on the blog’s search visibility, and it comes without having to outlay anything on advertising.

The Bottom Line (Last 12 Months)

• Tracked Online Income: approximately ¥172,900
• Annual Running Costs: approximately ¥51,200
• Net Profit: approximately ¥121,700

In practical terms, the blog earns more than three times what it costs to run, before counting guided tours.

The blog comfortably covers its direct costs without advertising of any kind. No banner ads. No Google AdSense. No sponsored content I haven’t actively chosen myself. The site exists to be useful to readers, and it earns by doing exactly that.

Is It Worth It?

Financially, yes – but that’s almost beside the point. A blog that has been running for 13 years, covers a subject I’d be out doing anyway, and opens the door to meeting and interacting with people both online and in person I’d otherwise never meet is absolutely worth maintaining. Plus, importantly, I genuinely enjoy sharing these places I visit and hearing from people who follow in my footsteps.

The question of whether to start a blog in 2026 is a little more nuanced. Competition is higher now than it was a decade ago, and Google’s algorithms are increasingly demanding. However, it can still be done if the platform decision is right from the start. Starting on a free Blogspot subdomain in 2026 and hoping to build meaningful search traffic is, in my view, not a feasible strategy. The indexing disadvantage and the authority gap are simply too large to overcome through content alone.

If you’re serious about building a blog with genuine reach, start with a self-hosted WordPress.org setup from day one. As the numbers above show, you can run a substantial, high-performing site for around ¥51,000 a year if you are selective about your tools.

In return, you get full ownership of your content, full control of your functionality, and a platform that won’t cap your growth.

Thirteen years in, I wouldn’t have it any other way.

The post What It Costs to Run My Blog in 2026 – And How Much It Earns appeared first on RIDGELINEIMAGES.com.

After 13 years of hiking and writing about the trails of Kanto and beyond, I’ve put together this guide to the best hikes in Japan for Mt. Fuji views – twenty-one personal favourites spanning prefectures from Tokyo to Yamanashi. Choosing a single “ultimate” spot is nearly impossible – there are simply too many incredible options – so this list brings together a mix of classic viewpoints and quieter trails that showcase Japan’s most iconic peak.

I’ve grouped these into easy, moderate, and challenging routes, so whether you’re after a leisurely half-day walk or a full mountain traverse, there’s something here for every level. Some are well-known classics; others are genuinely off the beaten path. All of them offer a front-row seat to Japan’s most iconic peak.

For the best visibility, aim for early morning or late afternoon. Winter and late summer – especially after a typhoon clears the air – tend to deliver the sharpest views, while midsummer can be hit-or-miss due to haze. For the ultimate experience, camping or staying in a mountain hut often provides the best chance of catching Mt. Fuji at its finest.

*Difficulty ratings assume the routes described on this blog, in snow-free conditions, and are based on distance, elevation gain, and navigation difficulty rather than technical climbing.

Hike #1　  Mt. Takao 高尾山 (599 m)　Easy

Mt. Takao is Tokyo’s classic doorstep mountain, rising to 599 m and reachable in about 40–50 minutes by train from Shinjuku. Despite its modest height, it punches well above its size, with multiple ridge trails, temple-lined paths, and a surprisingly varied landscape.

One of the most enjoyable ways up is via the Inariyama Trail, which climbs through a forested ridge and opens out to views over Hachioji and, on clear days, Mt. Tsukuba and the Tokyo Skytree. There are several well-marked routes to choose from, including a cable car and chair lift partway up – making Takao an easy year-round hike, though weekends are best tackled early or avoided altogether.

On a clear winter morning, Mt. Fuji is visible from the summit observation deck – a reward that surprises many first-time visitors. From here you can extend the walk along the ridge to Mt. Jinba or Mt. Kobotoke-Shiroyama and finish at Sagamiko Station, or simply head back down the way you came.

Hike #2　  Mt. Ono 大野山 (723 m)　Easy

Mt. Ono is an easygoing hike in the Tanzawa–Oyama Quasi-National Park, with a broad grassy summit and excellent Mt. Fuji views on clear days. The route works best as a clockwise loop from Yaga Station, climbing gently at first before breaking out of the forest onto open slopes with early views of Mt. Fuji.

For such an accessible peak, the summit is often pleasantly quiet, with wide views across the Tanzawa range, Hakone, and even Izu Oshima in good conditions. The descent towards Yamakita Station is a little narrower in spots but manageable, making Mt. Ono a relaxed close to Tokyo.

Hike #3　  Mt. Jinba 陣馬山 (855 m)　Easy

Mt. Jinba is one of the most popular and beginner-friendly hikes on the Tokyo–Kanagawa border, known for its wide, flat summit, white horse statue, and often excellent Mt. Fuji views. Easily accessed by bus from Takao Station, the standard route from Jinba Kogen Shita has a few steeper sections but is well maintained, making it suitable year-round in snow-free conditions.

From the summit, Mt. Fuji is framed by the Tanzawa Mountains, and on clear days the view stretches as far as Enoshima. For a longer outing, the hike can be extended along the ridgeline towards Meio-toge, or continued all the way to Mt. Takao, Mt. Mito, or Sagamiko – making Mt. Jinba a flexible and rewarding Fuji-view hike close to Tokyo.

Hike #4　  Mt. Iwadono 岩殿山 (634 m)　Easy

Mt. Iwadono is a brief but dramatic hike rising directly above Otsuki Station, known for its sheer rock face and excellent views of Mt. Fuji. The well-marked trail climbs past a small limestone cave before steepening near the top.

From the 634-metre summit – matching the height of the Tokyo Skytree – views of Mt. Fuji are wide and unobstructed, with extra viewpoints just below the summit. Short, accessible, and rich in history, Mt. Iwadono is a straightforward Fuji-view hike, with optional extensions to nearby peaks for those seeking more challenge.

Hike #5　  Mt. Myojinyama 明神山 (1,291 m)　Easy

Mt. Myojinyama rises above Lake Yamanaka and offers one of the finest panoramic views of Mt. Fuji in the Fuji Five Lakes area. While many visitors stop at nearby Panorama-dai, the open, grassy summit of Myojinyama provides a far more impressive outlook, with Mt. Fuji towering directly above the lake below.

The hike follows a gentle ridgeline linking two nearby peaks, with wide paths and long stretches of open grassland. Beyond Myojinyama the trail quickly becomes quieter, making this an excellent half-day Fuji-view hike with a truly commanding backdrop.

Hike #6　  Mt. Ashiwada 足和田山 (1,355 m)　Easy

Mt. Ashiwada rises above the southern shore of Lake Saiko, forming the high point of a scenic ridgeline linking Koyodai and Sankodai. This well-maintained hike follows the Tokai Nature Trail and is one of the quieter options in the Fuji Five Lakes area.

The standout highlight is Sankodai, where a wide clearing and observation deck offer a superb panorama over the Aokigahara forest and three of the Fuji Five Lakes – Saiko, Shojiko, and Motosu – with Mt. Fuji dominating the backdrop. The ridge walk toward Mt. Ashiwada’s summit is gentle and undulating, with optional bypass trails, and recent tree thinning near the top has further opened up the views.

Hike #7　  Mt. Kintoki 金時山 (1,212 m)　Moderate

Mt. Kintoki is a classic, beginner-friendly Hakone hike that blends folklore, open ridgeline walking, and some of the region’s best views of Mt. Fuji. Starting from Kintoki Shrine, the route climbs steadily through forest before steepening near the top.

The broad summit of Mt. Kintoki delivers a close-up, unobstructed view of Mt. Fuji, along with teahouses and the chance to get your photo taken with Kintaro’s oversized axe. The descent follows a gentle ridgeline, with views of Lake Ashi, Owakudani, and the Gotemba Plain before looping back to the trailhead.

Hike #8　  Mt. Sanpobun 三方分山 (1,422 m)　Moderate

Mt. Sanpobun rises above the quiet waters of Lake Shoji, the smallest of the Fuji Five Lakes, and offers a rewarding ridge walk in the Misaka Mountains. The trail climbs steadily to the wooded summit before continuing across a scenic ridgeline with occasional Fuji views.

The highlight comes at Panorama-dai, where an open viewpoint reveals one of the finest panoramas of Mount Fuji, rising beyond Aokigahara forest and the surrounding lakes. A satisfying point-to-point hike, Mt. Sanpobun combines quiet forest walking with a spectacular Fuji finale.

Hike #9　  Mt. Takagawa 高川山 (976 m)　Moderate

Mt. Takagawa is an easily accessible ridge hike along the JR Chuo Line and one of the area’s best options for clear views of Mt. Fuji. The popular point-to-point route runs from Hatsukari Station to Otsuki Station, following a well-marked ridgeline.

From the station, the route climbs steadily to Takagawa’s open summit, where wide views take in Mt. Fuji, Mt. Mitsutoge, and Mt. Jinba. The descent is steep initially before settling into a more relaxed ridgeline walk down into Otsuki City.

Hike #10　  Mt. Ougiyama 扇山 (1,138 m)　Moderate

Mt. Ougiyama and Mt. Momokurayama form a quiet ridge hike with two excellent viewpoints of Mt. Fuji. The point-to-point route runs from Torisawa Station to Saruhashi Station, linking both peaks along a mostly forested ridgeline.

The route gains height at an easy pace before reaching Mt. Ougiyama’s open summit and its expansive Mt. Fuji views. The trail then dips before a short, steeper push to Mt. Momokurayama, where small openings near the summit offer another fine Mt. Fuji outlook above Otsuki City.

Hike #11　  Mt. Takamatsu 高松山 (801 m)　Moderate

Mt. Takamatsu is a long but gentle ridge hike in the southern Tanzawa range, offering some of the area’s most expansive Mt. Fuji views for relatively modest effort. Starting near Matsuda, the trail climbs gradually through forest before opening onto a broad, grassy summit with views of Mt. Fuji, Sagami Bay, and the Izu Islands.

From the summit, the route follows easy ridgelines, passing several Mt. Fuji viewpoints before finishing at Nishihirabatake Park, where early-blooming Kawazu cherry blossoms make this hike an especially good choice from February to early March..

Hike #12　  Mt. Kurodake 黒岳 (1,793 m)　Moderate

Mt. Kurodake is the highest peak in the Misaka range north of Lake Kawaguchi and offers one of the finest ridge hikes in the Fuji Five Lakes area. The route climbs steadily from Misaka Pass before following an exposed, undulating ridgeline with occasional rocky sections and wide-open views.

While the wooded summit itself is enclosed, a short walk beyond leads to Kurodake Tenbodai, where Lake Kawaguchi, Mt. Fuji, and even the Southern Alps come into view. The traverse then continues toward the Fujiyama Twin Terrace – two dramatic observation decks that provide a spectacular final panorama of Mt. Fuji before the descent to the lakeshore.

Hike #13　  Mt. Shakushi 杓子山 (1,598 m)　Moderate

Mt. Shakushi is a rewarding ridge hike north of Lake Yamanaka, best known for its expansive, unobstructed summit views of Mt. Fuji. The route climbs steadily before a final push to the broad summit, where a 360-degree panorama takes in Mt. Fuji, the Southern Alps, and the surrounding Doshi and Okuchichibu ranges.

Beyond the main peak, the traverse continues along a rugged ridgeline toward Mt. Takazasu, with repeated ups and downs and a few steep, slippery sections. Despite its moderate rating, the length and sustained elevation gain make this a satisfying full-day hike, finishing with an easy road descent into a quiet local village.

Hike #14　  Mt. Daibosatsu 大菩薩嶺 (2,056 m)　Moderate

Mt. Daibosatsu is one of Yamanashi’s most celebrated hikes, known for its sweeping ridgeline views of Mt. Fuji and the Southern Alps. Starting near Daibosatsu-toge, the route quickly reaches Kaminari-iwa, where the scenery truly opens up, before a short detour to the forested summit of Daibosatsurei. The broad ridge beyond is the highlight, combining open vistas with deep historical significance as an Edo-period mountain pass – views are at their best in the shoulder seasons.

Continuing west toward Tabayama Village, the trail gradually leaves the crowds behind, descending through remote forest and crossing several streams. While the traverse can be done as a long day hike, it lends itself well to an overnight trip, finishing deep in the upper reaches of the Tama River valley.

Hike #15　  Mt. Kenashi 毛無山 (1,964 m)　Challenging

Mt. Kenashi offers one of the most intimate Fuji-view ridge walks, with far fewer hikers than better-known routes. This two-day traverse links Mt. Ryugadake, Amagadake, and Mt. Kenashi via a rolling ridgeline above Lake Motosu and the Asagiri Plateau, with the approach from the lakeside climbing steadily through forest and bamboo grass and offering frequent Fuji viewpoints.

Timed well, the ridgeline offers striking dawn and dusk light on Fujisan, while the summit of Mt. Kenashi provides a commanding view over the sprawling Fumotoppara campground below. The final descent is steep and rugged, making this a standout route best suited to experienced hikers seeking peace, quiet, and close-quarters Fuji scenery.

Hike #16　  Mt. Tonodake 塔ノ岳 (1,491 m)　Challenging

Mt. Tonodake is the most popular peak in the Tanzawa range. Starting from Yabitsu Pass, the route undulates over several minor peaks before settling into an open ridgeline walk, with frequent views of Mt. Fuji, Sagami Bay, and the surrounding Tanzawa mountains. Despite heavy foot traffic – especially on weekends – the constantly changing terrain and regular viewpoints keep the hike interesting throughout.

Just before the summit, the trail steepens with rocky sections and some fixed chains, leading to the broad summit of Mt. Tonodake. The descent down Okura Ridge – famously nicknamed Baka One – is long, stair-laden, and punishing on tired legs, but well broken up by tea houses along the way. With sustained elevation gain, this is a full-day hike best suited to fit hikers.

Hike #17　  Mt. Mitsutoge 三ッ峠山 (1,785 m)　Challenging

Mt. Mitsutoge is one of the best Mt. Fuji-view hikes within easy reach of Tokyo, with expansive summit panoramas. Starting from Mitsutoge Station, the trail climbs through forest to Mt. Kaiun, the highest of the Mitsutoge peaks, where broadcast towers mark a viewpoint that on clear days spans Mt. Fuji, the Southern Alps, and Yatsugatake. Winter is especially rewarding, with crisp air and often excellent visibility.

From the summit area, the route follows a long, gentle ridgeline toward Kawaguchiko, passing mountain huts and open viewpoints along the way. The descent via the Fuji Panoramic Ropeway delivers terrific views over Lake Kawaguchi, finishing near the lakeshore as a classic point-to-point traverse with good access at both ends.

Hike #18　  Mt. Takigoyama 滝子山 (1,620 m)　Challenging

Mt. Takigoyama, at the lower end of the Daibosatsu range, is a demanding hike combining shaded riverside walking, waterfalls, and sustained climbing to a broad, Fuji-facing summit. The route follows the river past cascades and occasional steep detours before a long ascent to the summit ridge.

From the open summit, Mt. Fuji rises directly to the south, framed by Mitsutoge and Daibosatsu-toge, with the Southern Alps visible in clear weather. The descent via Hinoki-daira is longer but less punishing, passing a quiet ridge-top rest area before dropping through cedar forest to Hatsukari Station. It’s a solid step up in difficulty, ideal for hikers ready for longer days and more varied terrain.

Hike #19　  Mt. Mishotai 御正体山 (1,681 m)　Challenging

Mt. Mishotai is a little-known peak on the 200 Famous Japanese Mountains list, long revered in Shugendo mountain worship. With approaches from all four directions, it works well as anything from a straightforward day hike to a longer overnight traverse.

Autumn is an especially good time to visit for the foliage, with buses serving most trailheads outside of winter. While the summit itself is wooded, nearby Mt. Ishiwari offers superb close-range views of Mt. Fuji. The full ridge traverse continues on to Lake Yamanaka, making for an unhurried route well off the beaten path.

Hike #20　  Mt. Koganezawa 小金沢山 (2,014 m)　Challenging

Mt. Koganezawa is a quiet overnight traverse in the Daibosatsu range, following a gently undulating forested ridge. The route climbs steadily via Yunosawatoge before passing Kurotake, with occasional breaks in the trees offering brief views along the way.

Camping near Mt. Ushiokuno-Gangaharasuriyama puts you right on the ridgeline, where clear conditions can bring striking dawn views of Mt. Fuji. Day two continues over Mt. Koganezawa before descending towards Kamihikawa-toge, rounding out a low-key but deeply satisfying traverse best suited to experienced hikers looking for quieter trails.

Hike #21　  Mt. Gangaharasuriyama 雁ヶ腹摺山 (1,874 m)　Challenging

Mt. Gangaharasuriyama delivers some of the Daibosatsu range’s biggest Mt. Fuji views on a relaxed two-day walk, without the crowds even during busy periods like Golden Week. Starting from Hamaiba-mae, the route begins with a long but gentle road climb, before a steady ascent to the summit. Despite being relatively close to Tokyo, the surrounding mountains feel surprisingly remote.

Camping near the summit delivers one of the region’s finest dawn views of Mt. Fuji, famously featured on the old ¥500 note. Day two includes a side trip to Mt. Ubakoyama, followed by a steepish descent. With limited water and poorly maintained trails in places, this traverse is best suited to experienced hikers comfortable with a degree of uncertainty on the ground.

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Living in Tokyo gives me the somewhat rare privilege of seeing Mount Fuji from my balcony on clear days – a view that renders the peak as a serene, distant icon. Yet, having climbed the mountain in the summer of 2000, I also know it as a physical landscape shaped by effort, weather, and time. Those two perspectives – Fuji as an everyday presence and as lived terrain – shaped my reading of Fuji: A Mountain in the Making by Professor Andrew W. Bernstein, a work that traces how the mountain itself, and the meanings attached to it, have been continually formed and re-formed over centuries.

As Project Hyakumeizan notes in his review, despite Fujisan being one of the most famous and recognisable mountains in the world, there remains a surprising lack of full-length English-language studies devoted to it. Until recently, only two such books had appeared in the past century, making Bernstein’s contribution all the more significant. That scarcity is perhaps understandable given the scale of the task: the combined footnotes and bibliography alone run to some fifty-five pages, a clear signal of the depth and ambition of the undertaking.

That ambition is evident from the outset, as the book opens by tracing Mount Fuji’s emergence from Japan’s prehistoric past and its earliest appearances in written records. Bernstein carefully layers geological history with early human encounters, showing how the mountain was once regarded less as an object of beauty and more as a volatile and unpredictable force. Through these opening chapters, Fuji appears not as a finished or inevitable symbol, but as something still very much in the process of becoming – a quality reflected even in the mountain’s name, as early written forms of “Fuji” employed characters meaning “peerless” and “timeless”, less for phonetic accuracy than to fix the mountain’s perceived qualities in language.

This process was punctuated by moments of immense geological violence. Before the Hoei eruption – which left a distinctive crater on Mount Fuji’s southeastern flank and was possibly triggered by a powerful earthquake several weeks earlier – the mountain had been relatively “well behaved” for nearly four centuries. The eruption itself proved catastrophic: communities nearby suffered severe damage, Edo was blanketed in volcanic ash, crop failures followed, and widespread famine ensued. The Tokugawa shogunate was largely unprepared for the scale and duration of the disaster.

This sense of vulnerability forms the backdrop for Bernstein’s examination of “Holy Fuji”. While the meticulous cataloging of religious sects – including the Fujiko (lay pilgrimage groups) and their – oshi (the professional priest–guides who housed and prepared them) – as well as various pilgrimage rites can at times feel dense, this chapter is essential to understanding the mountain’s spiritual evolution. Here we see the widespread construction of “mini-Fujis”, or Fujizuka, which culminated in a substantial artificial mound on the grounds of Waseda University. These structures allowed those unable to undertake the arduous journey themselves – including women, who were historically prohibited from climbing beyond the lower slopes to experience a condensed, symbolic ascent.

Without the modern convenience of the Fuji–Subaru Line’s fifth station (which only opened in 1964), Tokugawa-period climbers experienced the mountain in a far more immersive way. They began their ascent from the foothills, performing ritual purifications at waterfalls before eventually reaching the summit crater. Much like tourism today, these pilgrims were a vital source of income for surrounding communities.

The establishment of Edo by Tokugawa Ieyasu brought Mount Fuji decisively into Japan’s cultural imagination. The mountain became deeply embedded in poetry and visual art, appearing in the works of figures such as Matsuo Basho, Katsushika Hokusai, and Utagawa Hiroshige, as well as in countless everyday motifs. Fuji also entered popular belief as one of the auspicious images to dream of at the start of the New Year (the hatsuyume), cementing its role as both a cultural symbol and a national emblem. Bernstein shows how this process intensified towards the end of the Tokugawa period and accelerated as Japan emerged from sakoku and re-engaged with the outside world.

The earliest foreign climbers were granted access to Mount Fuji only reluctantly, provoking strong opposition from those who viewed their ascent as a violation of the mountain’s sacred character. After considerable arm-twisting – and accompanied by a substantial local entourage – the first to make the climb was Rutherford Alcock, the British consul general, in September 1860. His ascent paved the way for others, including Lady Fanny Parkes, the wife of the British Minister to Japan, who in 1867 became the first non-Japanese woman to reach the summit. The first woman to do so outright was Tatsu Takayama, who climbed the mountain disguised as a man in 1832, openly defying nyonin kinsei, the traditional ban on women entering sacred mountains.

One particularly compelling side story introduces the pioneering meteorological duo Nonaka Itaru and his wife Nonaka Chiyoko, who attempted to endure the brutal winter atop Mount Fuji in the name of scientific observation. Roughly two months into the ordeal, the mountain proved stronger than human resolve, forcing the couple to abandon the summit. Their severely weakened bodies were carried back down to safety, and their story of survival captured the public imagination, turning them into national celebrities.

By the late nineteenth century, climbing Mount Fuji was no longer restricted to the wealthy and well-connected. Aided by expanding railway networks, it became an early form of mass tourism, with even schoolchildren reaching the summit. Over time, however, Japan’s natural beauty – and Mount Fuji in particular – was increasingly mobilised for ideological ends, used to foster patriotic sentiment as the nation grew more militaristic following the First Sino-Japanese War and the incorporation of Taiwan into the empire. By the early 1940s, climbing numbers surged as Fuji was recast as a site of collective identity and obligation. After World War II, it was also used to perpetuate a fantasy of a homogenous Japan.

The mountain also became a battleground over ownership of its summit. The National Parks Association of Japan argued that it should belong to the Japanese people as a whole, while Fujisan Hongu Sengen Taisha maintained that the summit had historically belonged to the shrine. This legal and ideological dispute dragged on for decades until Japan’s Supreme Court ultimately ruled in favour of the shrine, recognising it as the rightful custodian.

In the final chapters, Bernstein turns to several pivotal economies that developed around Mount Fuji. These include the silk industry – Japan’s primary export until 1940 – as well as tea and paper manufacturing, the latter two of which continue to play a role in the local economy today. Pulp and paper manufacturing have not been without their downsides, particularly in terms of toxic emissions and heavy water use. Anyone who has hiked the surrounding trails in Yamanashi Prefecture will also be familiar with a more jarring modern presence: the sound of live-ammunition fire echoing from the roughly 34,000-acre training grounds of North Fuji Maneuver Area and the East Fuji Maneuver Area at the mountain’s foothills.

The book concludes with Mount Fuji’s designation as a UNESCO World Cultural Heritage site in 2013 – an accolade that almost failed to make it past the starting gate due to illegal dumping, vehicle pollution, and a distinct lack of biotoilets. In the years leading up to the designation, annual climber numbers swelled to more than 300,000, a burden arguably greater than any single mountain should be expected to bear. More recently, those numbers have begun to decline as authorities introduced entry fees and imposed daily limits on climbers using the Yoshida Trail, signalling a tentative shift towards sustainability.

One area where the book does struggle is in the reproduction of its grayscale imagery, including some of the author’s own photographs. A particularly disappointing example is the scroll depicting Prince Shotoku flying over Mount Fuji, reproduced so darkly that much of its detail is lost. It would have been far better served by inclusion among the colour plates at the centre of the book – something worth considering should the work ever be reprinted.

This shortcoming aside, Fuji: A Mountain in the Making is an impressive and deeply researched study that does rare justice to a mountain that continues to evolve, shaping – for better or worse – the lives and imaginations of those fortunate enough to witness its presence.

Fuji: A Mountain in the Making
by Andrew W. Bernstein
316 pages. Princeton University Press. ¥5,944.
Publication date: September 23, 2025
Available for purchase here.

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When it comes to “galactic scale” campgrounds in Japan, Fumotoppara ふもとっぱら in the Asagiri Kogen highlands of Shizuoka Prefecture reigns supreme. Spreading out at the foot of majestic Mount Fuji, the site is a behemoth; for starters, it covers an area roughly equivalent to five Tokyo Domes and can accommodate up to 1,500 tents.

Unlike many Japanese campsites that confine you to small, marked-out plots, Fumotoppara allows you to set up essentially anywhere you like within the vast, open grassland. It positively dwarfs every other site in the area. For the uninitiated, the atmosphere resembles something between a massive music festival and a spectacular open-air film event.

Despite its fame, the pricing remains very reasonable at 1,000 yen per person and 2,000 yen per car per night. Mercifully, unlike many other campgrounds in Japan, they haven’t hiked their prices since the post-COVID-era camping boom.

This past week, I returned for a second visit – not to hike, but to relax and take in the spectacular view of Fujisan. The mountain sits as the main attraction and the primary draw, ensuring this campsite remains open for business 365 days a year (barring the occasional typhoon). Since my wife, Akiko, and I got into “auto camping” (or “car camping” in the English vernacular), I’ve been eager to bring her here to experience it. Even during our three-day stay during the week, there was a healthy number of fellow campers. Weekdays are by far the easiest time to secure a booking; weekends – especially Saturdays – are often reserved months in advance.

The amenities have improved a lot since my last visit. There is now a well-stocked shop carrying everything from aluminium foil and gas canisters to miscellaneous items you might need in a pinch. The free bathhouse is also surprisingly good, meaning there’s very little need to leave the grounds once you’ve settled in.

The nights, however, were biting – something to prepare for if camping here in mid-winter. On our first night, temperatures dropped to –6°C, and it felt only marginally warmer inside the tent. Once the morning sun hit the silnylon, though, the temperature rose rapidly. Conversely, I suspect mid-summer would be uncomfortably hot, as the site’s 830 metres of elevation is unlikely to offer much relief once the sun is fully out.

This trip allowed us to properly unwind. We fired up the BBQ more than once; enjoyed some wine, cracked a couple of tinnies, and marvelled at the starlit sky, warmed by the fire. Fumotoppara has atmosphere in spades – helped, of course, by the mountain graciously staying on display for most of our stay.

Fumotoppara campground, Asagiri Kogen highlands, Shizuoka Prefecture.

Akiko celebrating our arrival.

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Signpost, Fumotoppara campground.

Nice reflection from the pond.

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All set-up and ready to relax.

Plenty of pyramid-style tents.

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Shooting Fujisan at its finest.

Last light of the day.

Chuck another burger on the BBQ.

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I’ve lost count of how many times over the years I’ve driven, ridden buses, or hiked – often directly across – the waters of Lake Okutama, via its two “drum bridges”. Formed by Ogouchi Dam, it has been both a familiar landscape and an important water source for Tokyo since the dam’s completion in 1957. Returning this past week and standing in much the same spot I stood almost exactly a decade ago, the view was noticeably different. Where I once looked out over a wide expanse of open water, much of the upper reservoir now lies exposed, with only a narrow, muddy channel tracing its way through silt and rock.

The numbers displayed at the dam’s management office reflect this change clearly. As of February 13 (2026), the storage rate stood at 40.7 percent, with a water level of 68 metres, well below its maximum depth of 142 metres. Water continues to be released to meet downstream demand, even as inflow remains limited. Okutama is not alone in this condition; reservoirs across the region are reporting similarly low levels, a situation attributed to a prolonged lack of rainfall. At Ogouchi Dam, current storage is at the lowest level recorded since the Heisei era.

The day’s first close observation begins at the second of the lake’s two drum bridges: the Tozura Pontoon Bridge, located near the Kamosawa trailhead for Mt. Kumotori and a 30-minute bus ride from Okutama Station. Rather than spanning turquoise water as it typically does, the bridge lay separated into two sections, resting quietly along the lakeshore. The landscape here resembles something closer to a dry basin, its cracked surface interrupted only by a shallow, sluggish flow of muddy water. The exposed riverbed has also revealed a range of discarded Showa-era bottles and cans, now visible for the first time in decades.

Tozura Pontoon Bridge, Lake Okutama, February 2026.

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Mitsuya Cider aluminium can flat pull-tab, circa 1971.

Cake-dry lake bed of Lake Okutama at Tozura.

Shallow, sluggish flow of muddy water in Lake Okutama’s upper reaches.

Tozura pontoon bridge (early 1960s on right).

A short walk back down the road towards Okutama Station brought me to the day’s second inspection point at Miyama Bridge. Comparison photographs taken in February 2016 and February 2026 reveal a clear change. The shimmering green reflection once cast by the bridge’s painted steel onto the water below has disappeared, replaced by a noticeably lowered waterline. One of the more haunting features here is the skeletal remains of trees that once stood within the grounds of households in the former village of Ogouchi.

It is worth noting that conditions have been worse in the past. During what came to be known as the “Tokyo desert” in 1964 a severe drought that coincided with the Tokyo Olympics – water shortages across the capital reached critical levels. Archival photographs published at the time by Asahi Picture News document reservoir conditions that were even more severe than those seen today.

Miyama Bridge, Lake Okutama, February 2016.

Miyama Bridge, Lake Okutama, February 2026.

Mito Bridge, Lake Okutama, February 2016.

Mito Bridge, Lake Okutama, February 2026.

Miyama Bridge concrete pylon, Lake Okutama, February 2016.

Miyama Bridge concrete pylon, Lake Okutama, February 2026.

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A return bus ride brought me to Ogouchi Dam itself. Comparing the scene with photographs I took in August 2014 reveals a marked change. An area that now resembles the eroded remains of an ancient settlement is, in fact, the former quarry site from which much of the 1.68 million cubic metres of concrete used in the dam’s construction was produced.

Interestingly, the scene captured in my recent photographs closely mirrors images taken here in the early 1960s, shortly after the dam’s completion, when drought conditions left reservoir water levels similarly low.

Ogouchi Dam former quarry site, February 2026.

Waterline well below the road level (early 1960s on right).

Ogouchi Dam February 2014.

Ogouchi Dam February 2026.

Ogouchi Dam February 2014.

Ogouchi Dam February 2026.

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Numbers on plain display at the dam’s management office.

So, what does this all mean, and are we at imminent risk of water restrictions? The short answer is “not necessarily”. The vast majority of Tokyo’s drinking water, around 80 percent, is drawn from the broader Tone River and Arakawa River systems, with the Tama River playing a much smaller role. In other words, while Lake Okutama remains an important source, particularly for western Tokyo, it accounts for only about one-fifth of the city’s total water supply. While the “Tokyo desert” of 1964 may not be repeating just yet, the exposed relics of the Showa era serve as a quiet, muddy reminder of our reliance on the seasons.

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Around this time last year, roughly ten days before I was due to fly home for Christmas, an unexpected email landed in my inbox. Someone wanted to join me on a hike. Anyone who has followed this blog for any length of time has probably noticed that I seldom hike with others. It’s not because I’m antisocial or dislike company; far from it. I simply find that escaping into the mountains alone is the best way to reset my mind. There are other reasons too, which I’ve written about before, but being on my own has always been a natural part of my time outdoors.

Still, this inquiry caught my attention. I explained truthfully that I didn’t have any hikes planned because I was about to head overseas. But if they were keen, I said I’d be willing to organise a guided day hike before I left. And that, as they say, was the beginning of everything.

Over the years running this blog, I’ve occasionally received messages from readers asking whether I offer private hiking tours. Usually, I politely declined. Between my regular teaching job, keeping up with the blog, and everything else life throws our way, I already felt busy enough. More honestly, though, doubts tended to creep in. Was I experienced enough? Was I qualified? Would I be found out as someone pretending to be a guide rather than actually being one? The infamous imposter syndrome.

As a brief detour, if you ever find yourself spiralling into that same self-doubt, just remember Yoshitaka Sakurada, the man appointed to head Japan’s cybersecurity strategy office who publicly admitted he had never used a computer. If he thought he could fake it till he made it, then surely there’s hope for the rest of us. Compared to that, offering to take a couple of people up a mountain seems like a fairly safe bet.

It was a genuine relief when that first guided hike went off without a hitch. I quickly realised that, while I still had plenty to learn, guiding was something well within my skill set. Most of my initial self-doubt evaporated somewhere along the trail that day. The main thing I learned early on was that guiding isn’t about being the boldest or the fastest or even the most knowledgeable person on the mountain; it’s about creating a safe, comfortable experience and planning for the unexpected, because the unexpected will always show up in one form or another.

After a couple of day hikes under my belt, and as Golden Week approached, I led my first overnight trip: a two-day hike to Mt. Takanosu, staying at its namesake refuge hut tucked below the summit. It felt like a milestone – my first real venture into something longer, more logistically involved, and more physically demanding for guests. On the first day, we were suddenly pelted with graupel – arare in Japanese – small, soft snow pellets that bounce off your jacket like miniature hailstones. I had never experienced it before. It wasn’t dangerous, just surprising. The second morning, we fared much better. The clouds opened just long enough to offer spectacular summit views, the kind that make you stop mid-stride and simply take it all in.

Over the rest of the year, I guided hikes from as close to home as Mt. Takao to as far afield as Yatsugatake, and I enjoyed them very much – hopefully as much as my clients did. A handful of lessons emerged along the way. For overnight trips, negotiating departure times has become an art form: I typically suggest a “late” 5:00 am, clients often counter with an “early” 7:00 am, and we eventually settle somewhere in the middle. For all hikes, checking a person’s recent hiking experience and fitness has become essential, as people tend to reel off mountains they climbed in their younger days, which can make it hard to accurately gauge their current level. Trails even close to Tokyo can be surprisingly tough for the uninitiated, and before committing to a route with over 1,000 metres of elevation gain, I need to be confident it’s within someone’s capabilities. I’m still getting used to this one, but finding the right pacing (neither too exhausting nor too leisurely) and planning routes that allow for flexible adjustments on the fly has proved invaluable. I’ve also learned to carry supplies I don’t often need myself, such as knee tape, extra food, and an emergency blanket.

One common question I get is how I find clients and whether I pay for advertising. The short answer is no, I don’t use Google Ads or anything similar. Guided hikes are a very niche corner of the tourism world, and thanks to the blog, my Guided Hiking Tours page already ranks in the right places. A few clients have even told me they discovered my tours through ChatGPT.

Another question I’m often asked is how I build trust, given that I appear to be just some random person on the internet. The honest answer is that it mostly comes down to the reputation I’ve (hopefully) built through the blog over the years.

So after a year of guiding, do I still feel like an imposter? Occasionally. But much less than before. It turns out that helping people enjoy the mountains is mostly about preparation, communication, and simply caring that they have a good day, not about being some mountain sage who’s memorised every contour line. Most of the real work happens long before we reach the trailhead: checking conditions, adjusting plans, watching how people are coping, and making a dozen tiny decisions that keep the day running smoothly. And with that, I’m looking forward to whatever adventures or accidental opportunities the next year has in store.

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Watching the NHK nightly news recently, it’s rare to go a night without a story about a bear attack somewhere in Japan. But is there really much to worry about for the average hiker?

Returning along the gentle trail to the Kamikochi bus terminal last month, the constant sound of bear bells was painful. Every hiker seemed to have one jangling away, the metallic tinkle echoing through the forest and drilling into my eardrums. And the crazy part is, as I’ve written about previously, they’re as much about repelling bears as they are about signalling ‘correct’ hiking etiquette. A few even carried bear spray – a trend I’ve started noticing around the Kanto region too. Understandable, perhaps, given the steady stream of headlines. But it all feels a little over the top.

After nearly twenty years of hiking across many parts of Japan – from Tokyo’s backyard of Okutama to the alpine ridgelines of the Northern Alps – I’ve only encountered bears twice. Both times they turned tail and ran as soon as they realised I was there. Encounters like that stay with you, but they also remind you that most bears want nothing to do with humans.

That said, there’s no denying the alarming numbers. This year has already seen a record number of bear-related incidents, with over a hundred injuries and at least nine fatalities since spring. A 26-year-old hiker was fatally attacked by a brown bear on Mount Rausu in Hokkaido in August, while a New Zealander was seriously injured just this month while trail running in the foothills of Myoko, Niigata Prefecture. Sobering stuff, and a reminder that these animals demand respect – especially when paired with Quinlan, a J-Vlogger’s frightening encounter video from northern Honshu.

Still, context matters. While overall attacks are at an unprecedented high, most have occurred not in remote mountain terrain but in the foothills or satoyama – the semi-wild zones where villages meet forest. Most victims are foragers, farmers, or locals collecting mushrooms or mountain vegetables, as has long been the case. However, with bears now encroaching on bus stops, suburban trails and even appearing at a supermarket and childcare centre, the risk zone for everyone has expanded. While the statistical probability of a serious incident for the average hiker on established trails remains small, the need for vigilance has never been greater.

As I mentioned in The Curious Case of Bear Bells in Japan, Japan’s relationship with its bears is complicated. Rural depopulation, abandoned farmland, and poor acorn harvests have all blurred the boundary between human and bear habitats. The result isn’t so much an increase in aggression as a shift in proximity. The bears aren’t coming for us – we’re simply crossing paths more often, and sometimes in places we didn’t used to.

That doesn’t mean we should be complacent. Hikers should stay alert, make some noise, avoid hiking alone in dense forest – particularly in the morning and evening when bears are most active – and know how to respond if they come across one. Still, it’s worth keeping things in proportion. For most of us, other hiking hazards pose greater risks than bear encounters. The recent rush to buy bear spray in lowland Kanto forests seems disproportionate to the actual risk.

Perspective helps. Bear encounters happen, and thankfully most are fairly benign. For the average hiker, far greater risks lie in getting lost, injured, stung by a hornet or succumbing to hypothermia – not fending off a bear.

Ultimately, the message is balance: stay cautious, stay aware, but don’t let the headlines turn every rustle in the forest into a source of fear.

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Summer in Japan has become a bully. In years past, the lingering heat in the Kanto region was a mild inconvenience – something you grumbled about while fanning yourself through September. But lately, it’s turned downright vicious. This year, it robbed a month from spring. On my Mt. Hirugatake hike in mid-April, it was already pushing 30°C in Kofu, and now, six months on, not much has changed, with NHK news this morning giving Kofu a top of 29°C. Summer’s still clinging like a stubborn guest – the last customer at an izakaya who won’t take the hint.

Worse still, autumn’s already struggling, with early reports of snow up north. The seasons have gone rogue.

This three-day weekend, I couldn’t fully enjoy Kanto’s autumn colours on its high peaks. Last year, I basked in near-perfect weather on a four-day Yatsugatake traverse. This year? I was stuck with a shorter hike in Saitama. Sitting on Mt. Dodaira’s summit on Friday, the sun blazing like early September, I couldn’t help but shake my head and laugh.

My real target was the Southern Alps. Early in the week, the forecast looked decent, but by Thursday, another typhoon was on the radar, soon to be bearing down on the Izu Islands. Tent reservations plummeted from nearly full to half-empty overnight – and who can blame anyone for wanting to avoid hypothermia with little hope of spectacular scenery?

It’s hard not to feel gaslit by the weather. One week, you’re drenched in sweat; the next, you’re grabbing a jacket, only to be back in short sleeves two days later. Kanto’s weather has developed its own brand of chaos – typhoons that linger, humidity like wet laundry in what should be a fully fledged autumn, and rain fronts that loiter aimlessly.

This year’s “autumn” – if we can call it that – feels like an encore nobody requested. The cicadas overstayed their welcome (they even started late this year), the ginkgo trees are still green, and typhoon season seems to have merged with winter storms. Even TV weather forecasters sound weary, their tone a resigned sigh of, “Well, folks, it’s still unseasonably warm”.

Of course, there’s the glaring 800-pound gorilla in the room – or rather, the overheated greenhouse in the sky. Call it climate change, global weirding, or whatever comforting euphemism you prefer – the pattern is undeniable. Summers are hotter, longer, and meaner; rainstorms hit harder and linger; and those crisp, postcard-perfect autumn days are as rare as an empty seat on the JR Chuo Line during rush hour.

Some shrug and say, “It’s just a bad year”. Maybe. But when every year feels like a bad year, you start to suspect that’s the new baseline. Kanto has always had quirks – typhoons slicing through the Izu Islands, Karakkaze winds in Gunma, random April snow flurries in Tokyo – but this volatility feels unprecedented. Less seasonal rhythm, more roulette wheel.

Planning a hike now feels like gambling. You can study weather apps, pore over Weathernews forecasts on YouTube, even check mountain hut webcams – and still end up trudging through a downpour or roasting under a “partly cloudy” sky. The weather gods have a wicked sense of humour.

For hikers, that unpredictability cuts deep. Autumn used to be the sweet spot – stable weather, cool air, and the long-awaited burst of colour across the surrounding mountain ranges; in other words, “akibare”, that quintessential clear autumn sky. Now, more often than not, it’s a tug-of-war between heatstroke and hypothermia, depending on which day of the week you decide to head out.

Yet, there’s camaraderie in this shared frustration. Every mountaintop conversation starts the same: “What’s with this weather?” – followed by a resigned laugh and a sip from the Thermos. Maybe that’s what keeps us going: the faint hope that next weekend will bring that perfect blue-sky day we remember from years past.

Despite the false starts, cancelled plans, heat, and storms, there’s still nowhere better to be than the peaks when the clouds clear. Maybe that’s the lesson this new climate is teaching us: seize the good days, savour the rare cool breeze, and never trust an extended forecast.

For now, I’m grateful for a day on Mt. Dodaira – occasional blue skies, a light breeze, and a summit bench to myself. If that’s autumn’s best offer this year, I’ll take it. With the seasons’ current antics, you learn to celebrate small victories – and keep your rain jacket, sunscreen, and down jacket stuffed in your pack, just in case.

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