Rethinking Where and How we Sleep in the Mountains
I’ll start with a confession: I wild camp in Japan quite a lot. If I had to guess, I’d say about a quarter of my overnight hikes have involved camping outside of official campsites. For regular readers of this blog, that probably won’t come as a surprise. In fact, I’d go so far as to say it’s one of the most rewarding parts of hiking here. That said, I do it responsibly (as I’ll explain later), and in my experience, so do the vast majority of both local and non-Japanese hikers.
In Japan’s mountains, wild camping is generally frowned upon. It’s technically prohibited in most areas and often met with quiet disapproval—even seasoned hikers often view it with unease. Part of this stems from Japan’s community-oriented culture, where individual actions that stray from the norm—especially those perceived as selfish or inconsiderate—can invite suspicion. Yet for those of us who explore the mountains primarily by public transport, wild camping can sometimes feel not just justifiable, but necessary.
Rather than asking whether wild camping is simply good or bad, a better question might be: What kind of impact are we really leaving behind? And how can we keep that impact to a minimum while still improving access to remote areas in sustainable ways?
In a previous post, I examined the environmental benefits of accessing trailheads by train or bus rather than by car, citing Ministry of the Environment data on the stark difference in emissions. However, some destinations—like the long approach to Mt. Wanakurayama from the Chichibu side—pose a challenge: limited public transport makes an overnight stay all but necessary. This raises an important question: Should a hiker be penalised for choosing a lower-carbon option that involves a discreet overnight stay when the only alternatives are to drive—or not go at all?
While Japan’s vast public transport network opens access to incredible wilderness areas without a car, it also presents difficulties—often leaving hikers stranded far from official campsites, where regulations vary considerably. In these cases, wild camping becomes more than just a convenience—it becomes a practical necessity. It’s worth noting that restrictions and enforcement vary significantly between national parks (where rules tend to be strictest), quasi-national parks, and prefectural natural parks, each with different management approaches and tolerance levels. Taken together, these challenges suggest an opportunity: Could local authorities explore more flexible or seasonal camping zones—not only near remote trailheads but also in other strategic areas? This also piggybacks on a recent article in which I broached the idea of a hybrid model of simple refuge huts—unmanned, unlocked, and intended for emergencies or light use.
Leave No Trace (LNT), or リーブノートレイ, is gradually gaining traction in Japan. While it doesn’t explicitly address wild camping, the principles promoted by LNT Japan emphasise proper waste disposal, fire management, and leaving natural areas as you found them. These include using low-impact terrain—flat, previously used areas like compacted dirt patches—set away from vegetation and water sources. The guidelines also stress minimising noise and visibility, respecting wildlife, and being considerate of other visitors. At its core, LNT encourages thoughtful decision-making over rigid rules.
While these Leave No Trace principles offer a practical framework for minimising impact, they also help address one of the main cultural concerns about wild camping in Japan. A common preconception is that legitimising wild camping would lead to hikers pitching tents haphazardly across the mountains. But anyone who’s spent time camping here knows that’s unlikely. Japanese hikers typically set up tents right next to one another—even in spacious campsites—as if straying too far might tempt a sharp-clawed visitor out of the forest.
In reality, wild camping in Japan often requires hauling heavy loads—especially water—over long distances. And in many cases, there’s no toilet nearby. These two factors alone are enough to deter all but the most committed campers.
My approach to wild camping is, for the most part, grounded in necessity. If I need to overnight, I carefully select a site that blends into the landscape, avoids sensitive environments, and usually shows signs of previous use. I pitch late, pack up early, and leave no sign I was ever there. I carry a Montbell O.D. Toilet Kit, especially in areas above the tree line and in fragile ecosystems. I also take basic wildlife precautions, especially storing food properly to avoid attracting animals.
If you do choose to wild camp, maintaining a minimal footprint is all-important—ideally going solo or with just one partner. Try to avoid brightly coloured tents and set up where you’re unlikely to be seen or disturb others. This kind of discretion reflects the Japanese concept of meiwaku—avoiding causing trouble or inconvenience for others—and is both practical and respectful. I’ve noticed that some Japanese hikers do the same, quietly camping out of sight in remote spots, perhaps reflecting a tacit understanding that low-impact wild camping, done right, doesn’t cause any real harm.
Some might argue, “You can justify anything if you try hard enough”. But this isn’t about justification—it’s about responsibility. Understanding the trade-offs, both environmental and social, helps shape better decisions. In a country where infrastructure is both an asset and a limitation, and where wilderness access increasingly overlaps with depopulating rural areas, we need more flexible approaches.
It’s also important to be aware that land ownership in rural Japan can be complicated. Boundaries are often unclear, and signage may be sparse. Enforcement of camping restrictions tends to be more common and strict in areas with functioning mountain huts, where staff may patrol or monitor the surrounding area. When in doubt, seek permission from locals—especially if you’re near a settlement, farmland, or mountain hut. A polite greeting and simple explanation can go a long way towards avoiding misunderstandings and building goodwill.
So, can wild camping—if done with care and respect—have a place in a more sustainable hiking culture in Japan? I believe it can. The question isn’t whether wild camping should exist, but how it can be integrated responsibly. Instead of strict bans or unchecked freedom, the best path forward lies in open dialogue—between hikers, local communities, and land managers—so that decisions reflect the realities on the ground.
Have you ever wild camped in Japan? What was your experience?
