What's it like to hike on the historical Nakasendo Trail in Japan

CNA

28-05-2025

Unseasonal mist still clung to the mountains like a silk kimono when our train from Nagoya pulled into Nakatsugawa. Unlike the coastal plain from which we'd just come where everything was shrouded in dazzling pink and white, cherry blossoms had barely begun to unfurl their shy pink petals, and the buds on the plum trees were still loosely wrapped against the lingering chill.
'This is a lovely time to be walking,' said our guide, Shin-san.
Our breath cool in the crisp April air, we'd come to walk the Nakasendo Trail – literally, the 'central mountain route' – one of Japan's five major highways, or gokaido, that once connected Edo (old Tokyo) with Kyoto during the feudal era. Built in the early 1600s, these routes were initially created for military purposes, carrying troops, supplies, and the Shogun's express messages to the ruling daimyos across the country. Of the Nakasendo's original 540km network with its 69 post towns, or rest-stops, only fragments survive today, with the Kiso Valley section being the most beautifully preserved.
And whilst I normally detest hiking – considering it a peculiar form of voluntary suffering – the prospect of a fairly leisurely four-day hike tracing the footsteps of samurai, messengers and daimyo processions through time was oddly appealing.
'You'll love it!' the perky Elaine from luxury travel consultants Blue Sky Escapes had promised when we first started planning the trip in late December. 'You'll have a guide throughout the trip. I'll organise trains and car transfers, and sort out the ryokans, so you don't have to stress about anything.'
She was true to her word. The affable Shin-san, our guide and constant companion for the next few days, had greeted us at the train station. Our luggage disappeared with remarkable efficiency – whisked away to the ryokan by a courier service Elaine had arranged – leaving us unencumbered, save for light backpacks, and free to have a quick lunch. In a restaurant called Wakuri, squeezed into a space barely larger than a cupboard, we savoured cold house-made soba draped with a warm nutty walnut sauce, accompanied by grilled miso touched with yuzu and a constellation of smoked quail eggs.
After this promising start, we set off. Our first modest walk along the storied trail wound through Ochiai and its small villages nestled against terraced fields. Ancient cobblestones, worn smooth by centuries of footfall, guided us through forests past old kosatsuba, or wooden notice boards once used by the Tokugawa shogunate to post laws and edicts. Every so often, we'd come across a metal bell hanging from a post, which Shin-san encouraged us to clang. 'For bears,' he explained, though I suspected they were still in deep slumber.
Late afternoon brought us to Guest House Motomiya, a 300-year-old hatago inn where time seemed to have paused somewhere in the Edo period. Compact and dignified, it once served the common travellers forbidden from staying at the nearby honjin, or inns reserved for the lords. Its owners Keiko Haruki and her husband, a couple straight out of the opening scene in Up, welcomed us, their faces wreathed in smiles. A long soak in their hinoki timber bathtub, the cypress-scented steam working its magic, was followed by an extravagant dinner of seasonal root vegetables, simmered and poached, and delicately fried river fish that had likely been swimming that very morning.
Walking from Ochiai to Magome the next morning, the trail unravelled before us like a Hiroshige block print. Stone-paved paths climbed steeply between wooden houses set on terraced hillsides, and water wheels turned lazily beside moss-covered rock walls. Along the way, Shin-san pointed out details we might have missed – the stone deities hidden by foliage, the architectural distinctions between the various accommodations for the old lords and common folk, the signs on weathered doors.
The path between Magome and Tsumago was utterly enchanting, every angle a cinematic still from a Japanese Middle-Earth, the ghosts of history lingering in every shadow. Primaeval forests loomed, and shrines whispered old prayers as we passed. Original Edo-period teahouses stood with their smoke pits intact, alongside stables and restored machiya-style homes. The Odaki and Medaki Falls – one next to the other in roaring tandem – cascaded down green-cloaked cliffs, their spray creating rainbows in the intermittent sunlight.
Over three hours and 10 kilometres, we found ourselves not hiking, but time-travelling, each step carrying us deeper into Japan's feudal past.
At the Nezame Hotel that evening, we discovered a blood pressure monitor discreetly positioned in the lobby. Because nothing says 'welcome' in Japan quite like the opportunity to confirm an impending cardiac event after climbing ancient mountain passes. The outdoor hot springs of the onsen brought relief to tired muscles, followed by a meal of such abundance we suspected our hosts believed we'd walked the Nakasendo's entire 540km stretch since breakfast, and not a mere ten.
Outside, the river gorge, its massive boulders scattered like the playthings of ancient giants, continued its eternal rumbling conversation with the night.
The next day dawned misty again as we climbed towards the Nenoue Pass bringing us, at one stage, to the Hakusan Shrine, where an 800-year-old cypress tree stood guard at the entrance. Sunlight broke through just as we entered, illuminating the weathered wood and stone with an ethereal glow that made everyone catch their breaths.
Bamboo groves swallowed us whole, creating green cathedrals where footsteps echoed strangely, and reality seemed to bend. For long stretches, we walked utterly alone, Shin-san expertly steering us clear of the more popular sections where other walkers might break the spell. Through stands of towering cypress, we discovered tiny waterfall springs where moss-covered logs lined old stone, the patient work of water over centuries.
The Tsutaya Tokinoyado Kazari hotel welcomed us that night with more hot springs and the sort of refined hospitality that makes Japanese ryokans legendary – in other words, fluffy white quilts on low slung beds, corn-gold tatami mats, and yet another feast. By now, despite tired joints and muscles, I had slipped easily into the rhythm of the trail: Walk, observe, absorb, reflect, eat.
The final day brought new challenges as we climbed toward the Torii Pass. Birch and maple trees stood leafless against the steel-grey sky, but higher up, we encountered fleeting patches of snow from the previous night. The steep slopes tested our fitness, yet each step brought fresh rewards, not least panoramic vistas soundtracked by birdsong and chilled wind rustling through trees with thickening leaves.
We spent our last night at Tobira Onsen Myojinkan – a sumptuous Relais & Chateaux property that Blue Sky Escapes had secured as a treat, where we luxuriated in a steaming hot-spring bath capped by cypress roofs. Dinner was extraordinary: Thick cuts of matsutake mushroom, grilled so the gills resembled salmon flesh, accompanied by seasonal delicacies that arrived in an endless procession of exquisite ceramic vessels.
Even breakfast the next morning was a revelation, featuring what I can only describe as the finest croissant I've ever tasted – impossibly flaky, weightless, and buttery – proving that these ryokans considered every meal, not just dinner, an opportunity for culinary theatrics.
Reflecting on the journey, it occurred to me that while much of the Nakasendo Trail's original 540km stretch has surrendered to modern development, its preserved sections – especially in the Kiso Valley – offer something precious: A living connection to Japan's past. Walking where daimyo processions once passed along stone paths, through ancient forests and feudal post towns, sleeping in inns that once sheltered common travelers and nobility alike, I found myself woven into a continuing story of a Japan far removed from blazing neon and bullet trains.
And for someone who typically avoids hiking at all costs, I found myself oddly reluctant to leave the trail behind. Centuries of footsteps had worn these stones smooth long before mine joined them – and somehow, that connection made all the difference. Not bad, really, for a walk in the woods.