Winding quietly through the mountains at the western edge of Tokyo, the Okutama Mukashimichi—literally meaning the “old road of Okutama”—is a path where the rhythm of nature and the traces of human life overlap. As you walk, the sound of the river and the hush of the forest seem to carry echoes of footsteps from another time.
Long before modern roads and railways, this mountain route served as an important lifeline for the local people. Travelers, merchants, and villagers relied on it to move goods and cross the mountains. It connected the town of Ome in Tokyo with Kofu in Yamanashi Prefecture via the Daibosatsu Pass, and was known in the Edo period (1603 – 1868) as the Koshu Ura-Kaido.
With the advent of the Meiji era (1868 – 1912), steep mountain sections were rerouted along gentler slopes, shortening the journey. By the early Showa period, buses and shared taxis began to run, and after the war, the construction of the Ogouchi Dam brought new national roads into place. Gradually, daily life moved away from the old path. What remains today is a winding trail where the present landscape quietly overlaps with traces of the past—inviting visitors to walk not just through space, but through layers of time.
Walking the path today, with its curves and weathered signposts, you can imagine and feel the presence of those who once passed through. The murmur of the river and the rustle of the forest overlap with footsteps from another time. Moving in quiet rhythm with the landscape, subtle shifts begin to surface—light filtering through leaves, air cooling near the water. It is a sensibility rarely found in the city: an awareness of time, place, and impermanence that settles gently into the body.
The stories that inhabit this road are kept alive by Hiroshi Arasawa, the third-generation proprietor of Arasawaya, a long-established inn near Okutama Station. Known affectionately as “Hiro-jii” (pronounced Hiro-jee), a blend of “Hiro” and jii—a Japanese term expressing affection and respect for elders—he is regarded with deep warmth, and seen as a keeper of the region’s collective memory. He began collecting and telling local folktales some 35 years ago. The catalyst was a remark made by a visiting politician: Okutama, the man said, had beautiful nature, but lacked romance.
The comment struck a nerve. Could folklore itself become romantic?
Determined to find out, Hiro-jii went door to door, visiting elderly residents throughout the region. He recorded their stories—told in local dialects—on cassette tapes, gathering tales from more than eighty individuals. With illustrations drawn by a local elementary school teacher, the stories were published as picture books. Against expectations, they resonated widely, eventually selling over 20,000 copies.
In giving voice to these quiet narratives, Hiro-jii did more than preserve memories. He revealed that romance, like folklore itself, does not need to be invented. It already exists—embedded in paths worn by footsteps, in words passed down softly, and in landscapes that continue to listen.
Some details, Hiro-jii realized, could never fully be conveyed on the page. Picture books had their limits. To bring the stories to life, he chose another path—becoming a storyteller himself. He trained rigorously, committing more than sixty folktales to memory. Today, in a room of the inn that has been converted into a dedicated storytelling space, he continues to recount these tales for overnight guests. The sight of him speaking—quietly, deliberately—feels inseparable from Okutama’s cultural landscape itself.
During the autumn foliage season, his storytelling sessions are in high demand, often fully booked well in advance. What he offers has become something singular: a rare opportunity to experience what many now call “the romance of Okutama,” not as nostalgia, but as lived memory.
Trails of Memory: Walking with Okutama’s Stories
“Back then, people were poor,” Hiro-jii begins, easing into one of his stories. “They couldn’t afford guns. So they hunted hibernating bears with spears.” He is describing kusuguri-gari(くすぐり猟), a traditional hunting method. Bear gallbladders were once prized as medicine, especially those taken during hibernation, fetching high prices. With that income, families could afford New Year’s rice cakes or new clothing. Bears were both sustenance and sacred gift—feared, respected, and believed to be bestowed by the gods.
The technique itself is startling: tickling a hibernating bear awake, then striking with a spear in the fleeting moment it recoils. “But bears are clever,” he adds, narrowing his eyes slightly. “They can tell human footsteps apart. Sometimes they’d be waiting deeper inside. It was always life-or-death work.”
He then turns to another tale, this one quieter, heavier. “Sad stories are important too,” he says. “Once, a young woman listening to this one began to cry. She had just lost someone close. I think it reached her heart.”
The story is Hime-ga-fuchi(姫が渕), a tragic love from nine hundred years ago. A young woman and a man, forbidden to marry because of their social standing. Unable to be together, she wished at least for her heart to remain with him—and threw herself into the river. At that moment, her beloved kan no fue—a flute—surfaced on the water. The place came to be known as Hime-ga-fuchi, Princess Pool, and the story has been passed down ever since.
“It’s sad, isn’t it?” Hiro-jii says. “But people survive by telling their sorrow. Folktales aren’t just old stories. They’re wisdom and prayers—ways people learned how to live with nature. They hold the memory of the land. Passing them on means passing on the strength to live.”
He continues, “In these stories, you always find life lessons such as don’t lie, and don’t deceive others. There’s one about a boy who tricks a god and is dragged into the river, losing his life. Through stories like these, people taught their children and grandchildren what must never be forgotten.” As a land of folktales, these Okutama stories carried through everyday life and still breathe today with the wisdom and kindness of those who came before. Today, Hiro-jii continues to share them—quietly, patiently—with all who make the journey.
Hiroshi Arasawa, Proprietor, Arasawaya Ryokan
Born in 1943, Hiroshi Arasawa is the third-generation owner of Arasawaya, a traditional inn founded in Okutama in 1908. Known affectionately as “Hiro-jii,” he is a leading folklorist and storyteller of the region. From a young age, he devoted himself to collecting and recording local tales. In the 1980s, he founded the Okutama Folktales Society, organizing and publishing regional stories, including the illustrated book series Tales of Old Okutama. At his inn, he offers guests an intimate storytelling experience around the traditional hearth. He has also been recognized by the National Land Afforestation Promotion Organization as a “Forest Tradition Storyteller.” His lifelong mission is to preserve folklore as “romance in words,” passing the stories of the land on to future generations.
About Okutama
Okutama is known as a hidden gem in the vicinity of Tokyo, which has a rich natural environment where traditional mountain village culture remains intact. Numerous traditional performing arts have been passed down through the generations, and there are many intangible folk cultural assets, such as the Kashima Odori dance, Shishimai (lion dance), and Kuruma Ningyo (puppet theater). Additionally, many people enjoy mountain climbing, camping, cycling, and fishing in the area.
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