Mountains You Can’t Read: The Hidden Origins of Japan’s Mountain Names

Where Japan’s Mountain Names Come From and What They Mean

Place names in Japan can range from tricky to downright impossible—even if you know your kanji. Ask most native speakers how to pronounce 水松山, a quiet, forested peak in Tokyo’s Okutama mountains, and many would confidently wager Mizumatsu-yama: mizu (water), matsu (pine), and yama (mountain). It makes sense.

Except it’s completely wrong. The mountain is pronounced Araragi-yama—and good luck finding any of those readings in a standard Japanese-language dictionary.

This confusion isn’t limited to little-known, far-flung peaks. From Hokkaido to Kyushu, mountain names in Japan carry a bewildering mix of regular, archaic, and downright poetic readings. They’re a source of charm, mystery, and—more often than not—uncertainty, even for native speakers. It’s not just the kanji that confound; it’s the meanings, too. While many names are rooted in the everyday—colour, shape, location—others hint at long-forgotten rituals, religious practices, or ancient beliefs.

What’s in a Name, Anyway?

The spark for this post came from a perceptive comment by Project Hyakumeizan on my recent Mt. Amagoi hike in Yamanashi, which highlighted this very point:

  … but what really grabbed my attention was the mountain’s name—Amagoi-dake, or the ‘Rain-calling peak’. Fukada Kyuya observes in his essay on Mizugaki that ‘far from being inspiring, the mountain names our ancestors chose were extremely down to earth’, usually taking their cue from a mountain’s colour, shape, or state. But there’s a subset of mountain names that point to rituals, magic, and religion—Gomando, Kyogatake, Amagoi etc. …

As PH notes, most mountains in Japan have surprisingly humble names. Take Shiroyama (白山 – White Mountain), Maruyama (丸山 – Round Mountain), Kumotori-yama (雲取山 – Cloud-Catching Mountain), or Maekake-yama (前掛山 – Apron Mountain). These aren’t grand or metaphorical; they’re practical, descriptive, and occasionally mundane. Fukada Kyuya, author of Nihon Hyakumeizan, made a similar observation in his essays: many mountain names reflect what people saw, not what they felt.

But there’s another layer—a smaller, stranger, more compelling stratum of names that tap into old rituals, religious iconography, and animistic beliefs. This is where Japanese mountain nomenclature gets truly fascinating.

Mountains of Fire, Ritual, and Rain

Some peaks bear names tied to religious ceremonies, folklore, or spiritual purpose:

• Amagoi-dake (雨乞岳), literally “Rain-calling Peak”, likely references Shinto rituals performed to summon rain during droughts.

• Gomando-yama (護摩堂山) in Niigata evokes the goma fire rituals of esoteric Buddhism, held at temple halls (do).

• Kyoga-take (経ヶ岳), or “Sutra Peak”, appears in multiple regions and may mark spots where Buddhist sutras were buried or recited to protect the land.

• Norikura-dake (乗鞍岳), often translated as “Riding Saddle Peak”, has associations with horse-riding deities and Shugendo mountain worship.

And then there’s Mt. Hamaibamaru (ハマイバ丸), located deep in the little-travelled Koganezawa Mountains. The mountain is one of Otsuki City’s Twelve Beautiful Views of Mt. Fuji, though it’s far from a household name. Its origin lies not in topography or colour, but in ritual. According to local tradition, the residents of Maki Village performed a Shinto ceremony there involving the shooting of hamaya—ceremonial arrows used to ward off evil. The name, written either as 破魔射場丸 or phonetically in katakana as ハマイバ丸, is a rare example where even the kanji aren’t consistently used. Whether due to complexity or the mountain’s folkloric rather than geographic significance, katakana is preferred.

This naming tradition—rooted in function, story, or ritual—stands in stark contrast to countries like Australia or the U.S., where mountain names often reflect European explorers, surveyors, or colonial administrators: Mount Townsend, Mount Kosciuszko, and Mount St. Helens—names tied to identity and legacy.

Japan, in contrast, rarely names mountains after people. The peaks are older than politics.

Why So Hard to Read?

If you’ve ever puzzled over a mountain signboard and been unsure how to say it aloud, you’re not alone. Japanese mountain names are often hard to read for several reasons:

• Unusual or Archaic Readings: Mountains often use kun-yomi (native Japanese readings) or literary readings that differ from modern usage.

• Ateji and Phonetic Stand-ins: Sometimes kanji are chosen for their sound, not their meaning.

• Dialect and Local Variants: Regional pronunciations often persist independently of standard Japanese.

• Katakana Usage: As with Mt. Hamaibamaru, katakana is sometimes preferred for clarity or because the kanji are unfamiliar or ambiguous.

• Linguistic Heirlooms: In some cases, mountain readings are preserved within specific families, shrines, or temple communities as a form of oral heritage—intentionally opaque to outsiders. These place names function like coded relics, passed down across generations.

Even digital tools like Yamareco or the official Geospatial Information Authority maps sometimes omit readings altogether or default to regionally biased ones—especially for mountains with split traditions. Case in point: 金峰山, the famous 2,599-metre peak straddling Yamanashi and Nagano. On the Yamanashi side, it’s read Kinpu-san, but on the Nagano side—home to Kinpo-sanso (金峰山荘)—it’s known as Kinpo-san. Same kanji, different mountain culture. The map might say one thing, the locals another.

Kawanori-yama offers a slightly different kind of ambiguity. The mountain’s kanji name is written in two ways: 川苔山 and 川乗山. Both versions are used interchangeably, and you’ll see them scattered across signposts and maps throughout the trail. Although both readings are Kawanori-yama, the nuance shifts with the kanji. The character 苔 (koke), meaning “moss”, seems particularly fitting for this lush, damp environment—and arguably more evocative than the more literal “ride the river” combination of 川乗. Still, both remain in use.

No doubt many mountains wavered for a period before settling on a fixed name—or continue to waver even now. Rishiri-zan, for instance, appears as Rishiri-san or Rishiri-dake depending on which map or guidebook you’re holding.

Earlier this year, I climbed another of the Twelve Beautiful Views of Mt. Fuji, namely Momokura-yama, and lo and behold—the last time I was there, the signpost had been switched from Momokura-san. Proof that even official signage isn’t immune to uncertainty.

More Than Just Peaks

In Japan, a mountain’s name doesn’t just describe what it looks like—it encodes something of its cultural memory. It might reflect a seasonal phenomenon, a sacred practice, a folk belief, or a ritual that once bound people to the landscape. In that sense, the names are as much historical artefacts as they are labels.

So next time you head out for a hike and see a name that doesn’t quite add up, stop and wonder. That kanji might not mean what you think. And the mountain might not just be a mountain.