The Trouble with the Hyakumeizan–And Why I’m Not Finishing

Why I’m Not Chasing Japan’s 100 Famous Mountains

Anyone who’s hiked a bit in Japan has probably come across the 100 Famous Japanese Mountains, or (Hyakumeizan). My first was Fuji-san, which I climbed 25 years ago during my first stint in Japan. About 13 years later, around the time I started this blog, I tackled Tanzawa-san.

Since that second summit, I’ve been hiking regularly and have climbed hundreds—if not nearly a thousand—mountains. Yet my Hyakumeizan count remains at just 34. At this rate—roughly three per year—I should be finishing the list sometime around 2049!

Except… I won’t be.

For a whole host of reasons (which I’ll touch on), I have no plans to complete the Hyakumeizan.

To those who have completed all 100, you have my full respect—it’s no small feat. No doubt it’s an arduous undertaking, one that likely taught you as much about your own fortitude and personal struggles as it did about the mountains themselves.

This piece isn’t for those who’ve already completed the list. It’s for hikers like myself—those who have yet to be swept up in the furore surrounding Kyūya Fukada’s chosen ones.

By way of a quick segue for those unfamiliar with this mountaineering maestro: before 1964, when Fukada penned his bestselling Nihon Hyakumeizan (100 Famous Japanese Mountains), mountaineering in Japan was still something of a niche pursuit. Certainly, it had its devotees, but nothing like the popularity we see today, where an estimated three million people hike at least three times a year.

That all changed after the book’s publication, sparking a decades-long hiking boom—particularly among the middle-aged and elderly. Fukada’s 100 famous mountains have since become highly coveted summits for climbers across the country.

If I’m being honest, I was initially eager to see how many Hyakumeizan peaks I could notch up. But as time went on, my enthusiasm gradually waned. Aside from Fuji-san—which in peak season is about as fun to climb as a greased-up flagpole in a thunderstorm—the first cracks in the Hyakumeizan veneer appeared on Nantai-san. A real slog, overcrowded trails, and an inordinate number of sandbags propping up the upper slopes made for a less-than-inspiring experience.

Meanwhile, right next door, Nyoho-san was probably basking in a sunbeam breaking through the clouds, its slopes blissfully free of crowds. From its pint-sized summit, the views were just as magnificent—without the chaos.

Despite the Hyakumeizan’s undeniable role in popularising hiking in Japan, it has also had unintended consequences, negatively impacting mountain climbing in the country. Building on the examples of Nantai-san and Fuji-san, Fukada’s must-climb list has led to an overwhelming concentration of hikers on certain peaks. Revered mountains like Tate-yama, Yariga-take, and Tanigawa-dake now see more foot traffic than any one mountain should endure, resulting in trail erosion, waste management challenges, and habitat destruction. Meanwhile, equally stunning but unlisted mountains remain overlooked, further concentrating the damage on the Hyakumeizan peaks.

What’s more, it encourages a checklist mentality over genuine exploration. Many hikers focus on collecting all 100 peaks rather than appreciating each mountain for its unique qualities. This problem is further compounded by popular mountain-climbing community sites like Yamap and Yamareco, which actively incentivise users to tally their claimed peaks and display them on their profiles as badges of honour. This gamifies hiking, leading people to rush from one peak to the next instead of taking the time to truly engage with the landscape. To each their own, but if you’re intent on completing the list in a single year or less, you’re likely doing yourself a disservice. It reminds me of travelling through Europe in my youth, where some people would brag about visiting 10 or more countries in just a few weeks—checking off destinations without truly experiencing them. Similarly, some climbers may overlook equally stunning, less-crowded mountains that offer far better experiences.

Then there’s the issue of commercialisation and the erosion of Japan’s traditional mountain culture. The Hyakumeizan list has been heavily monetised, with guidebooks, stamps, and even certificates for those who complete all 100 peaks. This has shifted the focus from personal fulfilment and a deep connection with nature to a more transactional, achievement-driven mindset. An example of this includes driving or flying to far-flung corners of the archipelago. It stands in stark contrast to Japan’s older, more spiritual and introspective mountain-climbing traditions, where peaks were often climbed for pilgrimage or personal growth rather than simply to check them off a list.

Another troubling issue is that the list encourages—or at least tacitly endorses—less experienced climbers attempting risky peaks and trails. Some of the 100 mountains, like Tsurugi-dake and, more recently, Sukai-san, are technically demanding and require proper skills for a safe ascent. Yet their inclusion on the list tempts hikers to attempt them even if they’re not fully prepared for the challenge that awaits, increasing the likelihood of accidents and rescues. This turns what should be a personal challenge into an unnecessary risk, often at the expense of local rescue teams and other climbers.

Last but not least—and this is the real crux for me—the list itself is both arbitrary and outdated. Fukada’s selection was personal and subjective, reflecting his own preferences—albeit shaped by nearly 50 years of mountaineering experience—rather than any objective criteria. Some truly remarkable mountains, like Tsubakuro-dake, Oizuruga-dake, and Komaga-take, were left out, while certain less impressive or redundant peaks—looking at you, Tsukuba-san—made the cut. To be fair, Fukada never intended his book to serve as a definitive ranking of Japan’s 100 best mountains. But once the list gained traction, its popularity was unstoppable.

While Nihon Hyakumeizan has undoubtedly inspired countless hikers and played a role in popularising mountain culture, it’s a double-edged sword. A broader appreciation of all mountains—not just those on a fixed list—would foster a healthier and more sustainable climbing culture in Japan.

Ultimately, mountain climbing is a deeply personal pursuit. Not getting caught up in the Hyakumeizan frenzy might just be the best way to enjoy it. Find a mountain that speaks to you, savour the climb, and who knows—you might just run into me out there.