step by step

As autumn gives way to winter in the remote Japanese region of Tohoku, Adam H. Graham hikes through misty forests and past seaside vistas, trying out a new coastal trail that is helping reinvigorate the communities devastated by the 2011 Great East Japan Earthquake and tsunami

- Photographs by Graydon Herriott

It was late November, and I was standing in an ancient beech forest at the edge of Towada-Hachimantai National Park in Japan's Tohoku region. The area, deep in the Õu Mountains on the northern tip of Honshu, is known for its autumn colors, hundreds of species of moss, and the Oirase Gorge, a river valley with abundant waterfalls. The Oirase Stream is fed by Lake Towada, a volcanic double caldera that is the primary source of the region's rich biodiversity. I'd spent time in Japanese forests before, but this one, which is home to native bears, foxes, tree frogs, tanuki (raccoon dogs), and bioluminescent moonlight mushrooms, was especially magical. The black oaks and gnarly maples were ablaze, and there were trees I'd never heard of, like white bark magnolias, fantail willows, and Manchurian elms with epiphytic violets peeping out from their mossy trunks.

As I plunged deeper into this mysterious habitat, I realized, with some amusement, that this was forest bathing. Not the Western adaptation that began appearing on spa menus and in hotel programming a decade ago (basically a rebranding of hiking) but the real thing. Contrary to popular belief, forest bathing isn't an ancient Japanese ritual but a more recent wellness technique introduced in 1982 to anchor practitioners in the present by using all of their senses to take in the natural environment. It was developed—in Tokyo, of all places—by the Japanese Ministry of Agriculture, Forestry, and Fisheries to help urbanites counter burnout caused by anxiety, stress, and overwork. After a rough year of jumping between Europe, where I live, and America, where my elderly father is suffering from dementia, I definitely needed it.