The Japanese Northern Alps (北アルプス / Kita-Arupusu) stretch across Nagano, Toyama, and Gifu prefectures, home to some of Japan’s most rugged and beautiful peaks. It’s a region built for hikers — steep ridges, volcanic summits, immaculate trails, and an incredible mountain hut network that lets you go deep without carrying a tent. I’d been reading about these trails for years and had seen countless photos of the granite ridges, but being there in person was something else. Below is a short narrative about this part of the trip, along with some photos.
DAY 1 — Tokyo → Takayama
Left Tokyo on a busy Monday morning aiming to reach Takayama by evening. I took the Hokuriku Shinkansen from Tokyo Station to Toyama, about two hours, then transferred to the JR Hida Line for the local train into the mountains. The second leg is slow — about two and a half hours — but incredibly scenic, winding along the Miyagawa River and through deep valleys dotted with small onsen towns. The whole trip took roughly four and a half hours door to door, and as usual in Japan, everything ran exactly on time.
I arrived in Takayama in the early evening, dropped my pack at the hotel, and went out to look for food. Most places were already closing, but I found a small local restaurant still open, ordered a simple dinner, and called it a night. Takayama felt immediately relaxing — compact, quiet, with enough mountain energy that you feel you’ve already left the city behind. It’s a perfect base for heading deeper into the Alps.
DAY 2 — Mount Norikura (3,026 m / “Kengamine”)
The adventure really began on day two with a trip to Mount Norikura, one of Japan’s 100 Famous Mountains and one of the easiest 3,000-meter peaks to reach. It’s not “easy” in the flat sense, but accessible: the public transport system literally takes you up into the alpine zone.
From Takayama I took a Nohi Bus from the station to Honokidaira Bus Terminal, then transferred to another bus that climbs up the Norikura Skyline to Tatamidaira (2,702 m), the highest bus terminal in Japan. The full ride took about 90 minutes. You start the hike already above the treeline, surrounded by alpine tundra, small shrines, and weathered volcanic rock. The infrastructure up there is impressive — a restaurant, toilets, vending machines, and well-marked trailheads — but it still feels remote once you start walking.
From Tatamidaira I followed the main route toward Kengamine, Norikura’s highest point at 3,026 m. The total elevation gain from Tatamidaira is only about 350 m over 3.5 km one way, but the thin air makes it surprisingly taxing. The first section is a broad gravel path through low alpine pine, then the terrain transitions into loose rock and sandy scree. Around 2,800 m you pass Katano-koya (肩の小屋), a small mountain hut that sells water and snacks. It was my first time seeing a Japanese hut up close — compact, clean, organized, and clearly built for efficiency.
As I climbed, the weather shifted between fog and drizzle. Occasionally, the clouds opened to reveal short bursts of blue sky, giving glimpses of the vast surrounding ridges. On clear days you can see Mount Ontake and even Mount Fuji from here, but I wasn’t so lucky. Still, the feeling of walking above the clouds at 3,000 m made up for it.
What struck me most was the mix of hikers. You see older couples with trekking poles, students, families — everyone moving at their own pace, smiling, greeting each other with “konnichiwa.” Hiking in Japan feels more social and less competitive than in the Pacific Northwest. The culture of respect for the mountains, and for other hikers, is obvious in every small interaction.
I descended in time to catch the afternoon bus back to Takayama, stopping briefly at the visitor area before the ride down. Back in town, I had enough daylight left to wander through Takayama’s old district before calling it a night.
DAY 3 — Kamikōchi and Mount Yake-dake (2,444 m)
The plan for day three depended entirely on the weather. I wanted to climb Mount Yake-dake, an active volcano straddling the Nagano-Gifu border. It’s famous for its steam vents and crater ridge, but conditions change fast there. Since there are two main routes, I chose the Kamikōchi approach so that even if the weather turned bad, I could still explore the valley.
I left Takayama early and arrived at Kamikōchi Bus Terminal around mid-morning. From the terminal, the trailhead for Yake-dake is about a 45-minute walk along a flat forest path that runs beside the Azusa River. I stopped at the mountain visitor center first — a nice and modern looking place with current conditions posted in Japanese and English. The staff were friendly, explaining that visibility was poor but the trail itself was open.
The ascent from Kamikōchi is about 12.5 km round-trip, gaining roughly 1,150 m in elevation. The first hour passes through forest, damp and quiet, with only the sound of streams nearby. Once the trail starts climbing, it becomes steeper and more rugged. There are sections with ladders and chains, which in dry weather would be straightforward, but with rain coming down, they were slick. The volcanic soil also becomes muddy quickly, so trekking poles helped with balance.
About two hours in, I met a solo hiker from Switzerland descending. She’d reached the hut near the upper section but said visibility was zero and the rain heavier up high. I considered continuing but decided against it. Hiking solo in those conditions didn’t seem worth it — no views, no payoff, and a long slippery descent waiting on the way back. It was one of those moments where turning around isn’t giving up; it’s just good judgment.
Back in Kamikōchi I took my time wandering around. Cars aren’t allowed in the valley, which gives the whole place a serene, otherworldly quality. The contrast between the bustling base area and the deep quiet a few minutes up the trail is striking. I grabbed another soft-serve ice cream (a theme by now), walked along the river, and watched the clouds move between the peaks.
DAY 4 — Mount Tsubakuro (2,763 m)
This was the hike I’d been waiting for — the highlight of the trip. Mount Tsubakuro (燕岳) is one of the Northern Alps’ most iconic peaks, known for its bright white granite ridges and sweeping views of the Hotaka and Yari ranges. It’s also home to Enzansō, one of Japan’s most famous mountain huts.
I woke before 6 a.m. and caught a bus to Matsumoto. I hadn’t reserved a seat but managed to get the last one. From there I took the JR Ōito Line north to Hotaka, then a taxi to Nakabusa Onsen, the start of the trail. The taxi cost around ¥9,000 — not cheap, but worth it since missing the early start would have meant reaching the hut too late. The Nakabusa trail is the most popular route up Mount Tsubakuro and gains about 1,300 m over 5.5 km, with an average time of 5–6 hours to Enzansō Hut.
I grabbed a quick ice cream at the shop near the trailhead (a surprisingly common tradition at Japanese mountain bases) and set off. The lower part of the trail is steep right away, climbing through dense forest with occasional wooden steps. The first 90 minutes were a steady grind, gaining about 500 m of elevation. The ground was damp but firm, and the air cool enough that I barely broke a sweat.
As the trees thinned around 2,200 m, the terrain changed — more rocks, roots, and slick soil. I used my poles for stability. Around three-quarters of the way up, near 2,400–2,500 m, there’s a small rest hut selling water, soda, and Pocari Sweat. I stopped there for a break and noticed a helicopter making repeated passes up the valley. Later I learned it was carrying supplies to Enzansō using a long cable line strung up from a mid-slope supply zone — an impressive sight to witness in action.
The final stretch is where the hike turns from forested to alpine. The ground shifts from dark soil to pale granite, and the views explode open. The granite catches the light differently here — almost white in color, giving the mountain its distinctive glow. The fall foliage was at its peak, with reds and oranges spilling down the slopes below. I reached the hut earlier than expected, dropped my pack, and decided to continue on to the summit right away rather than wait until morning. The weather looked stable enough, and I didn’t want to miss the chance.
From Enzansō, it’s about 1.5 km along a ridge to the summit, with another 200 m of elevation gain. The path winds through open granite fields, with a few narrow sections that require care but nothing technical. I saw a Rock Ptarmigan (雷鳥, raichō) along the way — a protected bird species that lives only in Japan’s alpine regions and serves as the symbolic bird of Nagano Prefecture. The sighting felt like good luck.
By the time I reached the summit (2,763 m) it was late afternoon and clouded over, but I didn’t mind. The ridge looked endless in every direction, and the wind carried that crisp high-altitude smell you only get above the trees. I stayed for a while before heading back down to the hut.
Enzansō Hut is legendary among Japanese hikers. Built in 1921, it’s one of the oldest huts in the Northern Alps and sits on a broad ridge at around 2,700 m, just below the summit of Tsubakuro. It can accommodate hundreds of guests at peak season, but even with that scale, the atmosphere feels calm and well-run. The staff are efficient and polite, moving with quiet precision that makes the whole operation feel effortless.
Dinner was served at 5:30 p.m. sharp, teishoku style — rice, miso soup, grilled fish, pickles, and a small dessert. It’s hard to imagine how they manage this level of cooking and logistics at that altitude. You eat at communal tables, and the hikers I sat with — mostly middle-aged locals — were welcoming, curious, and eager to practice their English. The sense of community was genuine. After dinner, I spent some time outside before lights-out at 8:30 p.m. The air was cold but still, and the valley below glowed faintly through the clouds.
That night I had my own sleeping pod, which was perfect for getting a full night’s rest. The pods are compact but comfortable, with clean bedding and good insulation. I fell asleep almost immediately and woke up before dawn to the faint sounds of people preparing for breakfast. It’s served at 4:30 a.m., long before sunrise, to give hikers time to reach their next peak or catch the early descent buses.
DAY 5 — Enzansō Hut and Descent
I thought about climbing back to the summit for sunrise but decided against it — clouds were thick, and the temperature had dropped. Instead, I lingered near the hut, watching short windows of clearing light move across the ridge. When it did clear, even for a minute, you could see Mount Yari and the Hotaka Range from the terrace — one of the best alpine views in Japan.
I started descending just after 6 a.m., wanting to make the first bus from Nakabusa Onsen to Hotaka at 9. The descent is long and steep, about three hours down the same 1,300 m I’d climbed the day before. Rain started around halfway down and got heavier near the end. The granite steps and roots turned slick, and I was glad for my poles and solid traction shoes. I reached the onsen area just as the bus was pulling up — perfect timing, though soaked through.
From Hotaka I took the JR Ōito Line back to Matsumoto, spent a couple of hours walking around the city, and made a quick stop by Matsumoto Castle before heading back to Tokyo that evening. Standing outside the castle, still slightly sore from the hike, felt like the perfect end to the mountain part of the trip — a full circle from the city to the peaks and back again.
Photographs
