By Wanderlust Magazine Must Visit May 15, 2026

Along cedar-darkened slopes and old mountain roads, Japan’s Ōyama Mairi reveals itself in one of its most lucid and atmospheric forms.

Deep within the Kanagawa Prefecture, an ancient deity watches as nearly fifteen millennia of civilization rise and fall. He does not speak, yet he absorbs whispered prayers of the faithful. He does not move, yet his presence dictates the rhythm of the rains and the life of the valley below.

This is Ōyama-san.

To a cartographer, this is a 1,252-meter mountain in the Tanzawa Range. To those who know him more intimately, Ōyama-san is a sentient realm. To walk the Ōyama Mairi is to step across a threshold into a sanctuary where the mist is his breath, the streams are his veins, and the ancient forests are inhabited by the spirits of the gods.

The Village of Stone and Steel

The journey begins at the Koma Sando, a vertical street acting as the mountain’s ostiary. Here, the modern world is traded for 360 steep stone steps and a gauntlet of Edo-style storefronts that feel like a living museum.

The path reveals its heritage through a curious contrast: blocks of tofu and wooden swords. Crafted from Ōyama-san’s own crystalline spring water, the tofu was historically the shojin ryori (devotional food) for ascetic pilgrims. It serves as the mountain’s first gift – a cool, mineral-rich fuel for the climb.

The swords, by contrast, embody the mountain’s power. In the 12th century, Japan’s first shogun, Minamoto no Yoritomo, ascended to offer his blade in a prayer for military victory. His subsequent success united Japan, transforming this peak into a preeminent destination for the faithful. Today, you can still see pilgrims carrying wooden replicas to the top as an offering for their own triumphs.

I leave the shops behind and board the cable car, which hums as it pulls me through a steep tunnel of maple and cedar. Within minutes, the bustle of the sando fades, replaced by cool, high-altitude air as I approach my next stop.

The Route: Take the Odakyu Line from Shinjuku to Isehara Station. Transfer to the Kanachu Bus (No. 4) to the final stop.

Physicality: This is a 5-hour round-trip hike over 6 miles of steep, rocky terrain. Wear hiking boots with high ankle support; the rocks are often slick with “Afuri” mist.

Cultural Etiquette: Keep your voice low. The mountain is a site of worship, and silence allows you to hear the “breath” of the forest.

The Reward: After descending, visit a local inn for a tofu set meal. It is the traditional way to return the mountain’s minerals back to your body.

Halfway to the Heavens

The atmosphere thickens at the Afuri Shrine, the mountain’s lower sanctuary. Afuri is the word for rainfall, honouring Ōyama-san as the rain deity who sustains the rice paddies of the Kanto Plain.

Despite its 2,500-year history, the shrine looks remarkably well preserved – a testament to centuries of meticulous restoration. It’s a humbling thought: we are not masters of this landscape, but temporary guests of a presence that existed long before us and will remain long after the collapse of humanity.

Before I take on the climb in earnest, I step up to the shrine. I toss a five-yen coin (a go-en, signifying good luck), ring the bell to wake the gods, and perform the ritual: two bows, two claps, and a silent prayer for a safe journey. With one final bow, I step beyond the shrine.

This is where the stone path ends and the real climb begins.

A Forest of Spirits

As I advance higher, the ascent becomes a chaotic scramble over jagged roots and slick stones. A dense fog rolls through the towering cedars, muting the world until all that remained was the sound of my own breath and the rhythmic drip of moisture from the canopy.

The forest here feels conscious. The wind rushing through the high branches creates a low, resonant hum, not unlike an exhale. In this realm, the “eight million kami” (gods) of Japanese animism aren’t abstract concepts. A soul dwells within every stone, every drop of water, and every gust of wind. To walk this trail is to move through a world teeming with spirits.

I stop before the Meoto Sugi or “married trees,” two ancient cedars locked together in a wooden embrace. They grow from a single root system, their trunks bound together by a shimenawa, a sacred straw rope adorned with white paper streamers. This physical tether marks them as a single divine entity, a living monument to harmony and faithfulness.

The Summit’s Shaking Stillness

The final stretch to the summit is a test of raw endurance. I scramble up vertical faces of stone, fingers searching for grip in the mountain’s own skin.

When I finally reach the peak of Ōyama Mairi, there is no grand reveal of the world below. Instead, I am standing within the sky itself, swallowed up by a restless sea of white clouds. The world below only reveals itself in glimpses as a final reminder that in this realm, the mountain holds all authority.

I sit in meditation for a few moments upon a cold, weathered stone, letting the mountain’s silence hollow out the space where Tokyo’s noise usually lives. I feel a tremor in my legs, a physical echo of the ascent. In this shaking stillness, the centuries seem to compress. The farmer’s prayers for rain, the Shogun’s prayer for power, and my own prayer for a safe journey are all threads of the same human continuity.

As I begin the descent, my knees protesting every jarring step, I realize that the Ōyama Mairi is not a conquest of a peak. It is a journey toward the realization of our own insignificance, and the strange enduring peace that comes with it.

Autor: Erin Higgins