Yo, what’s up, fellow Japan wanderers. Daniel here. As a photographer, I’m constantly chasing a feeling—a certain light, a fleeting expression, a vibe that tells a story words can’t quite capture. And lately, my lens has been obsessed with a ghost. Not a spooky one, but a cultural one. The ghost of the Showa Era. We’re talking 1926 to 1989, a wild ride of a period that saw Japan rebuild, boom, and define a whole aesthetic that’s now dripping with a specific kind of nostalgia. It’s in the faded movie posters, the cozy, smoke-stained coffee shops called kissaten, the design of an old train car. But I found that the most potent hits of this Showa vibe, the most immersive experiences, aren’t always in the city. They’re out on the trails. Yeah, you heard me. Hiking trails. These paths, carved into mountainsides and tracing forgotten railway lines, are like secret arteries leading straight to the heart of a bygone era. They’re where nature is slowly reclaiming the ambitious projects of a booming nation, where old mountain lodges haven’t changed their menus in fifty years, and where the silence is punctuated only by the echoes of the past. This isn’t just about getting a good workout and seeing some epic views, though you’ll get plenty of that, bet. This is about time-traveling on foot. It’s about feeling a Japan that’s raw, unfiltered, and still humming with the electric energy of the 20th century. So, lace up your boots. We’re going on a hunt for that Showa spirit, one nostalgic, leaf-strewn step at a time. It’s a whole mood, and if you’re looking for a Japan that’s deeper than the usual tourist spots, this is your jam. Low-key, these hikes are the realest cultural deep-dive you can get.
For a different kind of Showa-era immersion in the city, you can also get lost in the gritty, cinematic dream of Tokyo’s yokocho alleys.
What’s the Deal with the Showa Vibe, Anyway?
Before we explore the trails, let’s first get a clear idea of what exactly we’re searching for. What does this “Showa vibe” mean? The Showa Era was an extensive, significant period in Japanese history, coinciding with Emperor Hirohito’s reign. It’s marked by stark contrasts: beginning with pre-war militarism, followed by the devastation of World War II, and then an astonishing post-war economic boom. Imagine it like this: it’s the era your Japanese grandparents recall with a mix of nostalgia and complexity in their eyes. It’s the transition from black-and-white photos of bustling 1950s markets to the vibrant, neon-lit consumerism of the 1980s bubble economy. So, the “Showa vibe” isn’t a single feeling; it’s a wide range of emotions.
There’s the early Showa nostalgia, which feels grounded and communal. It’s the aesthetic of wooden schoolhouses, tin toys, and communal bathhouses where neighbors gathered. It’s the world of My Neighbor Totoro. Then comes the high-growth Showa of the 60s and 70s—the age of the first Shinkansen, the Tokyo Olympics, and a nationwide sense of unstoppable optimism. The style is bold and slightly futuristic in a now-retro way—think Go Nagai’s robots, Space Battleship Yamato, and ultramodern architecture symbolizing progress. Lastly, the late Showa of the 80s bubble is pure, extravagant energy: City Pop tunes, flashy suits with oversized shoulder pads, and a feeling that the celebration would never end. It’s an atmosphere of endless possibilities and dazzling city lights.
So, as we walk these trails, we’re seeking traces of all these phases. An abandoned mine might echo mid-Showa industrial ambition. A faded soda ad painted on a mountain hut can transport us to the 70s. A forgotten amusement park on a peak stands as a monument to Showa-era family entertainment. This nostalgia resonates deeply because it represents a time of tangible creation and community—an analog era before the digital age. It feels more authentic, more rooted. It’s a quest for genuineness in a world that often seems overly polished. On these trails, the Showa era isn’t a relic in a museum; it’s a living, breathing, slightly weathered presence in the landscape. And that, friends, is exactly what we’re here to capture.
Trail I: Okutama Mukashi-michi – The Whispering Path of Old Tokyo
The Vibe: Post-War Spirits and Forest Energy
First off, we’re heading to the western edge of Tokyo Metropolis. That’s right—this mountainous paradise is still technically Tokyo. Okutama serves as the city’s rugged, wild backyard, and the Okutama Mukashi-michi, or “Old Road,” is our time portal. This trail isn’t a tough alpine climb; it’s a gentle, winding path that follows the Tama River valley. But don’t be fooled by its ease. This place vibrates with Showa-era energy. The atmosphere is deeply rooted in early-to-mid Showa times. It evokes the post-war reconstruction era, when this very trail was a crucial link connecting Okutama village to the outside world before the main road sliced through the mountains. You can feel history beneath your feet. It’s a quiet, reflective nostalgia. You’ll pass weathered farmhouses, tiny shrines tucked into the rocks, and the air itself feels thick, imbued with the scent of cedar and echoes of footsteps from decades ago. The real highlight, what catapults this trail deep into Showa authenticity, are the ruins—abandoned structures, remnants of a once-thriving past, now slowly, beautifully reclaimed by the forest. It’s pure mono no aware—the gentle sorrow of passing things. Truly a poetic experience, no joke.
Getting There: Escaping Shinjuku
The trail is surprisingly easy to reach, making it a perfect day trip to escape the sensory overload of central Tokyo. Your journey begins at the concrete canyons of Shinjuku Station. From there, you board the JR Chuo Line westbound. On weekends and holidays, look for the Holiday Rapid Okutama train, a direct ride. On weekdays, take the Chuo Line to Ome Station, then transfer to the quaint, rustic JR Ome Line for the final stretch to Okutama Station. The ride is part of the charm. As the train moves away from the city, skyscrapers give way to suburbs, then fields, and finally the cars wind through lush, green valleys. The windows frame scenes straight out of a Ghibli film. When you step out at Okutama Station, housed in a charming wooden lodge-style building, you’ll feel transported to another world. The air is crisp, the river’s murmur constant, and life slows to a gentle pace. Grab a trail map at the visitor center by the station, fill your water bottle, and prepare to step back in time.
The Hike: A Walk Through Time
The Mukashi-michi trail stretches about 9 kilometers and typically takes three to four hours, depending on how often you pause to snap photos—which, trust me, will be all the time. The trail starts just a short walk from Okutama Station. Cross the river and you’ll see the trailhead signs. The beginning is a gentle ascent that takes you onto the mountainside, offering stunning views of the valley below. You’re literally walking atop the modern road, on a path used for generations.
The trail consists of a mix of paved parts, dirt paths, and a few thrilling, though safe, suspension bridges that bounce with every step. These bridges cross deep green gorges, with the turquoise Tama River rushing beneath—prime spots for photos. But the real magic is in the details. Moss-covered stone retaining walls attest to Showa-era labor. Small, unattended shrines with local offerings hint at a community’s lasting bond to the land.
The pinnacle of the Showa experience here is the ruins of the Okutama Ropeway. About halfway along, you’ll find the abandoned Kawano Station of a cable car line that ran from 1961 to 1975. Built to ferry tourists across Lake Okutama, it’s now a concrete skeleton, overgrown with vines, its window-less facade eerily watching the forest. It’s hauntingly beautiful. You can peek inside safely and imagine the hum of machinery, the laughter of holidaying families. It symbolizes the Showa dream—progress and leisure—now frozen in time. This is the shot, the feeling you came for.
Further along, the trail leads to the Shidakura Suspension Bridge, a narrow, slightly daunting crossing towards the abandoned Shidakura settlement. This cluster of empty mountain homes, once full of hardworking families, is a deeply moving sight. The trail then descends to the massive Lake Okutama, a reservoir created by the Ogouchi Dam—an impressive Showa-era engineering marvel completed in 1957. From here, catch a bus back to Okutama Station to complete your loop.
Photographer’s Notes: Embracing Wabi-Sabi
For photographers, this trail is a dream. The aesthetic embraces wabi-sabi—the beauty of imperfection, impermanence, and decay. Don’t chase flawless, polished shots. Look for texture and detail. I recommend a prime lens, perhaps a 35mm or 50mm, to encourage moving around and discovering unique compositions. Focus on textures: peeling paint on old signs, rust on guardrails, moss patterns on stone, and how light filters through cedar trees, dappling the forest floor. The ropeway ruins are your main subject. Shoot through broken windows, using the concrete to frame the forest beyond. Slightly underexpose to enhance a moody, melancholic feel. Film would be ideal—grainy black and white like Ilford HP5 or a roll of Fujifilm Superia with its classic green tones will bring this place to life. Capture the solitude of abandoned structures alongside nature’s quiet reclamation. It tells a story of human ambition versus the slow, inevitable triumph of time.
Post-Hike: Showa-Style Refueling
After the hike, you’ll be hungry. Back in Okutama town, resist the convenience store temptation. Seek out a local soba shop. Many have been family-run for decades and fit the bill perfectly—sliding wooden doors, tatami mats, menus unchanged since the ’70s. Ordering a simple plate of zaru soba (cold soba with dipping sauce) or a hot bowl of sansai soba (mountain vegetable soba) is the ideal, authentic way to wrap up your day of time travel. The flavors are clean, honest, and deeply tied to the region. Surrounded by Showa-era calendars and decor, you’ll feel the experience’s final pieces fall into place. You didn’t just see the Showa era—you tasted it, too.
Trail II: Mount Ikoma – Summit Scrapes and Retro Futures
The Vibe: An Amusement Park Frozen in Time
Alright, let’s change pace. From the quiet melancholy of Okutama, we’re heading to the vibrant, slightly surreal border between Osaka and Nara. Our destination is Mount Ikoma. The atmosphere here is totally different. If Okutama embodies the ghost of the rural, hard-working Showa era, Ikoma channels its exuberant, playful, and slightly kitschy spirit. The goal of this hike isn’t just reaching a summit; it’s the Ikoma Sanjo Amusement Park, a fully operational theme park perched atop the mountain’s peak. This place? It’s a Showa-era treasure chest. Opened in 1929, it has seen updates over the years, but its core remains pure mid-to-late Showa. The rides carry that charming, mechanical vibe. The mascots look like they’ve stepped out of a vintage anime. The view from the Ferris wheel, with Osaka’s sprawling metropolis on one side and the ancient capital of Nara on the other, is simply breathtaking. Hiking up to a retro amusement park in the sky is a uniquely Japanese experience. It’s fun, it’s quirky, and it’s a high-energy blast of pure, genuine nostalgia. This is the Showa era’s vision of family fun, still alive and kicking.
Getting There: The Kintetsu Line Portal
Getting to Mount Ikoma is easy, especially if you’re in Osaka or Nara. Your ride is the Kintetsu Nara Line. From Osaka-Namba or Kintetsu-Nara Station, hop on a local or semi-express train to Ikoma Station. The Kintetsu Railway itself feels a little retro compared to the ultra-modern JR lines, perfectly setting the mood. Upon arriving at Ikoma Station at the mountain’s base, you have options: hike the entire way up, or take the most adorable cable car you’ll ever see to get a head start.
The Ikoma Cable Line is an attraction on its own. As one of Japan’s oldest, its cars come in various themed designs. The first leg features dog-themed cars named “Bull” and cat-themed ones called “Mike.” They’re ridiculously cute and scream Showa-era charm. Taking this cable car is essential for the full experience. It carries you halfway up the mountain to Hozan-ji Station, a perfect starting point for a gentler hike to the summit.
The Ascent: Pilgrimage Path to a Sky-High Playground
Whether you begin at the base or from Hozan-ji Station, the hike up Mount Ikoma is a journey through layers of history. The trail is a well-worn pilgrimage route leading to Hozan-ji Temple, a large Buddhist temple complex renowned for its ties to commerce and prosperity. The path winds through dense forest, passing stone lanterns, smaller sub-temples, and Jizo statues adorned with little red bibs. The air is cool, filled with the scent of damp earth and incense. It feels ancient, a world away from Osaka’s neon glow just beyond the ridge.
As you climb, the forest occasionally opens up, revealing jaw-dropping views of the plains below. The contrast is striking—you’re on a spiritual, timeless trail, but can see a tiny, bustling modern world spread out to the horizon. The final ascent is the steepest, but anticipation for what awaits at the top keeps you going. Faint, tinny music from the amusement park drifts through the trees—a surreal soundtrack to your approach. Then you step out into a clearing, and there it is: a colorful, whimsical realm of spinning rides and cheerful chaos, perched atop a 642-meter mountain. It’s a genuine “what the heck” moment—in the best way.
The Summit: Ikoma Sanjo Amusement Park
Entering Ikoma Sanjo Amusement Park feels like stepping onto the set of an ’80s family movie. Entrance is free; you just pay per ride. The highlight is the “Cycle Monorail,” a pedal-powered ride on an elevated track circling the park’s perimeter, offering incredible, unobstructed views of the city. Riding this slightly wobbling contraption high above ground is both thrilling and hilarious. There’s a classic carousel, a spinning teacup ride, and a flight tower that slowly lifts you for an even better panorama. Everything sports a sun-faded look, a testament to decades of family memories. It’s not sleek or high-tech like Disneyland or Universal Studios Japan. It’s something far more special: genuinely, unironically nostalgic. You can grab classic snacks like crepes and fried noodles and simply soak in the atmosphere. On a clear day, you can see as far as Akashi Kaikyo Bridge to the west and the Yoshino mountains to the east. It’s a view that connects the past, present, and future of the Kansai region, all from a charmingly retro playground.
Photographer’s Notes: Shooting Neon Dreams and Faded Glory
This spot is a photographer’s playground. The visual contrasts are stunning: bright, primary colors of the amusement rides against a deep blue sky or the soft green forest. The vibe is pure retro-pop. I recommend a wide lens, maybe a 24mm, to capture the scale of the rides set against the vast landscape. Seek out the little details that shout Showa: the typography on signs, the design of ticket booths, and the slightly goofy character statues. The Cycle Monorail is your prime shot—try to capture colorful cars gliding along the track with Osaka blurred into a miniature cityscape behind. If you stay until late afternoon, the golden light casts long shadows and makes the park’s colors pop even more. This is the place to celebrate color and joy in your photos. Shoot from low angles to make the rides look monumental, and capture the happy expressions of visitors. This is a story of happiness—a simple, timeless fun that has endured for generations.
Level Down: Exploring the Retro Townscape
After you’ve enjoyed the sky-high fun, the descent offers more to discover. If you take the cable car down to Hozan-ji Station, spend some time exploring the temple complex and the small town around it. It’s a maze of steep stone staircases, traditional inns (ryokan), and restaurants serving pilgrims. Many have been around for decades, exuding a palpable Showa-era atmosphere. It’s a great spot for a late lunch or a cup of tea before returning to the modern world. Alternatively, you can walk from Hozan-ji down to Ikoma Station, passing through a quiet residential neighborhood where classic Showa-style houses and gardens line the streets. This completes Mount Ikoma’s picture as a place where the spiritual, recreational, and everyday have coexisted harmoniously for nearly a century.
Trail III: Usui Pass (Aptos no Michi) – Echoes on the Phantom Railway
The Vibe: Industrial Strength Meets Mountain Tranquility
For our final trail, we’re heading north of Tokyo to Gunma Prefecture, where the echoes of Japan’s modernization resonate through shadowy tunnels and across grand brick bridges. This is the Usui Pass, home to the “Aptos no Michi,” a walking path laid atop a disused section of the Shin’etsu Main Line railway. This wasn’t just any railway—it was one of the era’s most challenging and ambitious engineering achievements, a crucial link between Tokyo and the Japan Sea coast, opened in 1893 and operating through much of the Showa period until its closure in 1997. The atmosphere here blends industrial grandeur with profound silence, reflecting the Meiji and Showa eras’ determination to master nature and unify the nation. Walking this trail is like exploring an expansive, open-air museum; you literally walk through history. The silence inside the long, dark tunnels is complete, and when you emerge onto a towering brick viaduct soaring above the forest canopy, the sensation is truly awe-inspiring. This hike is perfect for lovers of history, engineering, and moody, atmospheric adventures.
Getting There: The Gateway to Gunma’s Lost Line
The journey to Usui Pass begins at Tokyo Station. From there, you board the Hokuriku Shinkansen—one of Japan’s sleekest bullet trains—for about an hour to Takasaki Station in Gunma. At Takasaki, you switch to the old-school JR Shin’etsu Main Line, riding it to its terminus at Yokokawa Station. This train ride itself feels like a transition from the future back to the past. Yokokawa Station seems frozen in time, preserved from the mid-20th century, once a bustling hub where special rack-and-pinion locomotives were attached to trains to tackle the steep Usui Pass incline. Now, it sits quietly, its history proudly displayed. Adjacent to the station is the Usui Pass Railway Heritage Park (Toge no Bunkamura), a fantastic museum dedicated to this very railway’s history. You could easily spend hours there. The Aptos no Michi trail begins right at the edge of the park, making it simple to locate.
The Walk: Tunnels, Bridges, and Imperial Legacies
The trail itself stretches about 6 kilometers one way and is mostly flat, more of a long walk than a challenging hike. It follows the path of the old railway tracks, now removed to create a smooth walking surface. The first part of the trek is pleasant, passing a few old railway buildings and a charming lake. Then you reach the first tunnel, where the experience deepens. There are more than ten tunnels along the way—some short, others extending hundreds of meters—offering a full sensory immersion. The temperature drops suddenly. Your eyes adjust sluggishly to the darkness, illuminated only by faint safety lights. The air feels cool and damp, and every sound—your footsteps, your voice—echoes endlessly, creating an adventurous and slightly eerie atmosphere. The soot from former steam and diesel locomotives still stains the brick arches.
The highlight—the reason this trail is legendary—is the Meganebashi, or “Spectacles Bridge.” This magnificent four-arch red brick viaduct towers 31 meters above the valley. Built in 1892, it’s Japan’s largest structure of its kind and a designated Important Cultural Property. The trail crosses right over it, offering breathtaking views down the Usui River valley. The scale and beauty of the bridge are staggering, symbolizing an era when Japan was passionately industrializing, dedicated to building a modern nation. Standing atop it, you feel a deep connection to that history.
The path continues through more tunnels and past relics of the old railway infrastructure, ending near the old Kumanotaira Signal Box, the site of a tragic 1950 accident. From there, you can retrace your steps the 6 kilometers back to Yokokawa or venture further up a steeper path to the Usui Pass Observation Platform, which provides panoramic views toward Karuizawa, a mountain resort town. The return walk offers fresh perspectives on the tunnels and bridges.
Photographer’s Notes: Capturing Rust, Brick, and Nature’s Reclamation
Photographically, Aptos no Michi is a masterclass in leading lines, symmetry, and contrast. The tunnels serve as natural frames—stand at a tunnel’s entrance and use a tripod with a slow shutter speed to perfectly capture the archway framing the bright greenery beyond. The result is stunning. Inside the tunnels, experiment with light and shadow, using a flashlight to paint light onto the brickwork for dramatic effects. Meganebashi is your star subject. To capture its full scale, descend from the trail into the valley below; a path leads to the base of the bridge, where you can take that iconic upward shot of its majestic arches. A wide-angle lens is essential here. Highlight the contrast between the man-made red brick and the forest’s natural greens and browns. This scene tells a story of human engineering’s grandeur and the landscape’s quiet, persistent beauty. Focus on details, too: rusted bolts, faded inscriptions on tunnel entrances, ferns growing from cracks in the brick. Every element narrates part of the tale.
Final Stop: Karuizawa or Yokokawa?
After your hike, you have two exciting options. You can linger in Yokokawa, exploring the Railway Heritage Park and, importantly, tasting the local specialty: Toge no Kamameshi. This delicious and famous ekiben (station bento box) features rice cooked with chicken, shiitake mushrooms, bamboo shoots, and other delights, all served in a reusable miniature ceramic pot. It’s been sold here since 1958 and captures the flavor of Showa-era train travel. Alternatively, catch a bus from the trail’s end up to Karuizawa, a stylish mountain resort town in Nagano Prefecture. Karuizawa carries its own Showa-era history, having been a favored summer retreat for wealthy Tokyoites and expatriates for decades. Exploring its historic shopping streets and elegant summer villas offers a refined glimpse into 20th-century Japanese history before you take the Shinkansen back to Tokyo.
How to Pack for a Time-Traveling Hike
Packing for these hikes isn’t just about practicality, although that’s important too. It’s about adopting the right mindset. Naturally, you’ll need the essentials: sturdy, comfortable hiking shoes (seriously, your feet will appreciate it), a small backpack, plenty of water, and some snacks. Mountain weather can change abruptly, so having a lightweight rain jacket on hand is wise, even if the forecast looks clear.
Now, let’s discuss the vibe-specific gear. First, cash. Many of the old shops and eateries in these areas are wonderfully old-fashioned and may not accept credit cards or digital payments. Carrying a good amount of yen is essential for fully immersing yourself. Next, consider bringing a small tenugui. This traditional Japanese cotton towel is incredibly versatile—you can use it to wipe sweat, as a headband, or to bundle items. It’s a small, practical piece that ties you to Japanese hiking culture. Lastly, think about how you want to capture your memories. While your smartphone camera is convenient, if you want to embrace the Showa aesthetic, why not bring a film camera? An old point-and-shoot or SLR encourages you to slow down and compose your shots carefully, producing images with a tangible, nostalgic quality that digital simply can’t match. It’s the ultimate way to commit to the time-travel experience.
Final Thoughts: The Trail is the Destination
Ultimately, hiking these trails is about more than simply covering distance or taking in sights. It serves as a form of active meditation, offering a connection to a richer, more nuanced side of Japan. The Showa Era was not without its flaws, but it was a period marked by remarkable energy, creativity, and transformation, whose echoes remain all around us if we know where to seek them. Along these paths, removed from the noise and hurry of modern city life, those echoes become clear. You can sense the ambition behind a decaying ropeway station, the joy lingering in a faded amusement park, and the pride embodied in a grand brick bridge. You are not merely witnessing history; you are moving through it and becoming part of its ongoing story. The rust, the moss, the silence—they are not signs of deterioration but evidence of a continuing narrative. So seek out these trails. Traverse them slowly. Listen to what the mountains have to share. The spirit of Showa awaits, ready to tell some incredible stories.
