Japan's Kii Peninsula is the ultimate place to try forest bathing—here's why

Akimoto Nakai stands in a clearing within the cedarwoods, the babble of a mountain brook filling the morning air and the slanting light glinting on an axe clenched in his fist. Etched into the steel are symbols representing the elemental forces that have shaped this forest over centuries: one each for the wind and the rain, the sun and the earth. And yet, the forest’s story isn’t only one of nature. People like Akimoto have also played their part.

“Working in these forests is a lot like raising children,” he says wistfully. “You watch the trees grow; you try to guide and shape them. When they’re struggling, you care for them, and over time, you become rather attached.”

Akimoto is a seventh generation yamamori — a hereditary title equivalent to a ranger, though more accurately translated as a ‘mountain guardian’. His family has long watched over a tract of forest in Japan’s Kii Peninsula, a green headland jutting into the Pacific south of Osaka, whose cedar and cypress trees have been prized for their exceptional quality for centuries. Here, abundant rainfall and nutrient-rich soil foster timber that’s both strong and supple, while the surrounding mountain ranges shield the forests from typhoons, allowing the trees to grow tall and mature.

Revered as Japan’s national tree, cedar is seen as a symbol of resilience and character, full of quiet lessons for those who stand humbly beneath its branches. According to local folklore, timber from the Yoshino forests helped build Japan’s ancient capitals, Nara and Kyoto, forming the sacred temples and shrines that remain among the country’s most revered landmarks.

And yet, as you explore these forests — be it wandering the woodland trails alive with birdsong or simply standing among the soaring, symmetrical trunks — you soon understand this environment has its own restorative, spiritual quality.

Akimoto explains that in Japan’s Indigenous Shinto faith, every tree has its own kami (spirit), one which is acknowledged by any yamamori with an offering of sake before the tree is felled. But Akimoto himself is a devotee of a more modern practice — shinrin yoku, or forest bathing. A practice that emerged in Japan in the 1980s, forest bathing has no defined creed nor ritual. It’s a philosophy of simply spending time in the woods, finding calm in the presence of these living things of great age and stature. And science backs this up, with a plethora of studies showing time in forests lowers both heart rate and blood pressure.

“It’s like meditation,” Akimoto says. “A retreat from the noise of the world. In the forest, you can sometimes feel the presence of something deeper, greater, perhaps something unseen. You just feel at ease.” And standing here among the towering cedars, watching the light filter through the canopy and listening to the birdsong drift on the breeze, it’s easy to see what he means.

Wood with dignity

I spend a few days in Yoshino and quickly see that cedar and cypress are ingrained into everyday life in myriad ways. Stressed city dwellers from nearby Osaka flock to this mountain idyll to practice shinrin yoku, but also to recuperate in its ryokans, traditional Japanese inns with tatami floors and paper walls. I stay at one such ryokan, Yukawaya, whose interiors are rich with the swirl and knot of local wood. I pass an idle evening in its rotenburo, an open-air hot spring bath, oriented for views of cedar and cypress forests, and wooded ridgelines that turn blue with the gathering dusk.

By day — just audible over the summer screech of cicadas — the high, thin whine of sawmills echoes through the wooded hills of Yoshino. In one of these mills, I meet Teruiche Ishibashi, a fifth-generation lumber merchant. Surrounded by the scent of fresh-cut timber, he explains how cedar and cypress have long been prized for their unique properties, with different parts of the trees suited to different purposes. “Like cuts of beef,” he says with a smile.

Centuries ago, sake from this region was shipped across Japan, often stored in Yoshino-made barrels, which were favoured for the gentle sweetness the wood imparted to the drink. Larger barrels for aging soy sauce, on the other hand, demanded densely ringed, century-old cedar, tough enough to hold liquid without leaking.

Today, Teruiche is candid about the challenges facing local forestry. Demand has declined, he says, and perhaps it wouldn’t be such a bad thing if some of the artificial forests were left to grow wilder, allowing nature to reclaim its space. Still, he hopes the craft, and the quiet wisdom that comes with it, won’t disappear entirely.

“This wood has dignity,” Teruiche states. “The father plants it, the son cultivates it and the grandson chops it down. What I do today is a direct result of every generation that has gone before me.”

Sleeping among the trees

My stay in the region ends at the Yoshino Cedar House, a strikingly designed homestay and community space set along the banks of the Yoshino River. In centuries past, timber was floated down this very river; today, anglers cast their lines into its clear waters. The house itself is a tribute to local craftsmanship: the cedar-lined downstairs evokes the warmth and intimacy of a ship’s galley, while the upstairs, built with fragrant cypress, feels almost like a treehouse suspended in the forest canopy. At sunset, the entire structure glows with a rich, golden warmth. I notice there’s a profound, all-encompassing sense of tranquility here, just like in the forests where its timbers were born.

“The house is designed to work with all the senses,” explains the host, Kouhi Yoshikawa. “You feel it underfoot, you smell the wood and you hear the floorboards creak.”

And of course, you can lose hours gazing at the hypnotic textures in the wood. Before I fall asleep in my futon, I count the growth rings above me. Each wandering line marks a year in the mountain forests — among winter snows and spring cherry blossoms, summer cicadas and falling autumn leaves — all under the same steady guardianship of the yamamori.