Instead of chasing cherry blossoms, burn
The bus moves slowly through the canyon and I sit with my face pressed to the window, not wanting to miss a single moment. My backpack is wedged between the seats next to me, packed with camping gear, warm layers, and two days’ worth of food.
In Kyushu, the forest is unlike any other place in Japan. Not the tangled, humid jungle of Okinawa, nor the birch trees of Hokkaido that rise pale from the snow. A dense canopy of different shades of green and different forms of foliage. The trees cover the mountains with a luxurious velvet of leaves.
And through all this, the cherry trees are in bloom.
It’s as if someone took a paintbrush dipped in pale pink and lightly dappled the landscape, spreading soft bursts of color across the green expanse. The contrast is almost unreal: delicate petals against the deep, layered forest.
What a time to be walking through Japan.
Where? That? Because?
Where am I?
Kyushu is the southernmost of the main islands of Japan. A land shaped by fire and steam, where volcanic peaks rise from the earth and sulfuric hot springs bubble and breathe beneath them.
What am I doing on a hike?
I’m not entirely sure. And that’s part of the appeal.
There is something called the Kyushu Nature Trail, at least on paper. But when I tried to look for a GPX track, detailed maps, or anything that looked like a clear route, I came up empty-handed. Maybe it’s my lack of Japanese, or maybe the trail itself is more of an idea than a clearly defined path.
So instead, I’m doing what seems like the only option: making it up as I go. Joining sections, following signs when they appear, trusting instinct when they don’t appear. It’s a loose thread rather than a fixed line, and I’m curious to see where it leads.
Why Japan?
The answer is partly practical and partly “through hiking obsession,” which means looking at anything and asking yourself: Can I take a long walk here?
I’ve just come out of a winter spent working in Hokkaido (northern Japan) and now find myself in that in-between stretch: the gap between seasons after one episode ends and before the next begins. Time opens up in a rare and generous way, and with it arises the familiar question: where to go and how to spend it?
So why not in Japan? Why not walk?
If you followed Elina’s Michinoku Hikeyou got a glimpse of Japan, beyond its cities and bullet trains, the fluid landscapes that don’t demand dramatic attention. The kindness of the Japanese people transcends language barriers. Outside of big cities, the Japanese have a very close connection to nature, so spending days and weeks hiking could make sense for them.
Perhaps Japan is becoming the next big hiking destination. Or maybe it already has been, waiting to be noticed.
And yes, what is considered a “straight walk” is up for debate. I’m sure someone, somewhere, will have a stricter definition. But for me, it’s simple: if I’m out for more than one night, carrying what I need and moving forward day after day, that’s a complete hike.
Forever lost in translation
«Sorry, exhausted.»
The petite woman behind the service counter pronounces the words in well-practiced English. There’s a softness in his voice, a glint of genuine pity in his dark eyes. I smile, nod, and respond with “Arigatou gozaimasu,” for what must be the fifteenth time today. And I know it won’t be the last. I’ll say it at least fifteen more times before the day is over. Like every day.
I don’t think I’ve ever said “thank you” as often in my life as I have here. And I mean it, every time. Thank you for letting me into your country, for your patience, and for helping me even when I can’t ask for it properly.
Of all the countries I have lived in, none has made me feel as helpless – and as dependent – as Japan. These last four months have been humiliating. Without language, even the simplest things become small challenges and there is no real comfort zone to retreat to. Every interaction is an exercise in trust, in putting aside ego and hoping for the best.
I allow myself a brief moment of frustration; If only I had booked the bus ticket earlier. Then I exhale, pull out my phone, and zoom back into Google Maps. If not this plan, then another.
What would be a good place to start a short impromptu hike?
My eyes fall on a pin: Tsuetate Onsen Carp Streamer Festival. I touch it and then trace the route to Mount Waita. Thirteen miles. That could work.
Every hike needs an end: the carp festival
When the bus finally arrives in Tsuetate, the seats are empty. The town is revealed to be little more than a group of buildings and guesthouses clinging to the bank of the Tsuetate River. Steam rises from the canyon walls where hot springs seep and bubble, blurring the line between water and air.
And above all, stretching from one side of the river to the other, are the carp.
Hundreds of them, hanging from cables, swaying and billowing in the wind. Fabric bodies in bright and fun colors: red, blue, gold. Some are barely a foot long, others extend up to three. They dance overhead, caught in invisible currents, as if the river itself has risen to the sky.
I half expected it to look staged, maybe even a little kitsch. But standing there, watching them move, there’s something undeniably fascinating about it. A type of silent magic.
Despite the festival, there are hardly any people around. And after the dense, unforgiving crowds of the cities, the stillness feels almost sacred, like stumbling upon a secret that hasn’t yet been discovered. And maybe not, because no other foreigners were seen that day.
Who doesn’t like a path?
After taking a few photos, it’s finally time to get started. Walk, or rather, walk. A road trip, to be precise.
I could have tried hitchhiking, gotten a ride closer to the trailhead where the climb to Mount Waita begins. It would have been faster, easier. But that’s not why I’m here. I want to move at my own pace. I want to move and immerse myself in Kyushu. You can’t smell flowers from a car or catch the earthy aroma of rain-soaked soil through a closed window. You don’t hear the low, steady hum of the bees as they move from flower to flower.
The path follows the river upstream, winding gently through the valley. Only a handful of cars pass me. Otherwise, there is nothing but silence.
The road is quiet. The forest is silent. The small towns I pass through, almost invisible, are also quiet. It is a deep and enveloping stillness, the kind that not only surrounds you but slowly filters through the air in your lungs, the sun on your skin, the yellow flowers that touch my hands when I pass, staining my knuckles the color of the sun.
And it’s not long before silence settles in my head. The noise begins to soften and then fades away. Thoughts stretch, slow down, until they move at the same steady pace as my steps: four miles per hour.
Ghost in a ghost town
The towns I pass through are quiet, but not abandoned. A young man walks down the street with his hands in his pockets. A boy watches me from a lawn chair, curiosity shining in his eyes. An old woman bends over her garden, methodically pulling out weeds. Every time they hear the fast pace of my running shoes on the track, they turn their heads.
«Konichiwa.»
Break the silence with soft, melodic clarity: so and so, followed by a smile and a small nod of the head.
In places where everyone knows everyone, strangers stick out like a sore thumb. Especially a peculiar one: a Gaijin (which means foreigner), alone, female, covered in tattoos, carrying my life in a neon yellow backpack that practically glows against the dull tones of the countryside.
In rural areas, it is not uncommon to encounter a silent, floating feeling of suspicion or weariness toward the intruder. Sometimes even a hint of hostility. Who hasn’t been interrogated by some redneck on their side-by-side while rightfully walking along an official NATIONAL trail that traverses public land (looking at you, CDT)?
But here? No.
In Japan, at least in my experience so far, there is no such advantage. No suspicion visible, no distance kept. The friendship feels natural, not forced. There is a quiet calmness to it. Perhaps it is rooted in a deeper collective sense of trust. This is a country where people leave doors open, where belongings are left unattended without a second thought, where security seems like a given rather than an act of faith.
Of course, rural communities around the world are close-knit and protective in their own ways. What seems like suspicion to a tourist may simply be caution. But I enjoy the Japanese style, the silent understanding that seems to say: I don’t know who you are or why you’re here, and I don’t need to. «I don’t need an explanation to believe that you won’t do harm.»
Vice versa, I believe that no one will harm me, and with that, the sun sinks below the horizon and I walk into the night.
To continue on day 2
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