When the mountains come closer: Japan’s uneasy summer with bears
There is a particular hush to the mountains of northern Japan in late summer—the soft rustle of maple leaves, the distant call of crows, the damp, sweet scent of the forest floor where mushrooms push through the duff. For generations, elderly walkways have led into those woods at dawn with a simple bamboo basket and a knowing eye, looking for matsutake and other seasonal treasures. This year, that familiar rhythm has been fractured.
In a string of recent incidents that have left communities on edge, police in Iwate prefecture announced that a man in his 70s who went into the woods to harvest mushrooms was found dead, his body marked with deep scratches. In another part of Iwate and in Nagano and Miyagi prefectures, authorities discovered more elderly victims, also bearing claw marks and wounds consistent with animal attacks. The environment ministry now says the official death toll suspected to be caused by bears has risen to six for the fiscal year that began in April 2025—matching a grim peak last seen in 2023. Between April and September, 103 people nationwide were injured in encounters with bears.
Not a single story, but a pattern
“It feels like the mountains are different,” said Keiko Tanaka, 68, who still goes into the satoyama near her home to gather mushrooms. “Twenty years ago we would only see tracks. Now we see the animals themselves, sometimes near houses, sometimes on the road.”
Her words capture an uneasy observation shared by rural residents across Honshu: bears are appearing more often, and closer to people. A supermarket in Gunma prefecture experienced it literally—an agitated bear wandered the aisles, injuring two men and sending shoppers fleeing beneath rows of cabbage and instant noodles. “We had never experienced anything like this,” said Hiroshi Horikawa, a management planning official for the grocery chain. “The store sits near the mountain, but bears had never come near before.”
And in the postcard-perfect village of Shirakawa-go, a Spanish tourist waiting at a bus stop was attacked—an image that jars with the manicured rice terraces and the gassho-zukuri thatched houses that tourists come to see. “This is a place people come to feel peace,” said a local innkeeper. “Now people are asking, can we still be safe here?”
Why now? A convergence of forces
There is no single villain here. Wildlife biologists and local officials point to a convergence of long-term forces reshaping the human-wildlife interface.
First is demography. As young people move to cities and rural populations age, large tracts of farmland fall into disuse. Bamboo groves and brush reclaim terraces. “These abandoned fields and overgrown satoyama create perfect corridors for wildlife,” said a regional wildlife biologist. “Animals that once skirted human settlements now move more freely.”
Second is climate. Warmer winters and shifting patterns of fruiting and mast (the cyclical production of nuts and acorns) can cause food shortages in certain years and abundance in others. Bears, driven by hunger, expand their foraging range and take more risks—sometimes wandering into villages or following the smell of easy calories into trash bins and convenience stores.
Finally, traditional practices persist. For many elderly residents, mushroom and wild plant foraging are cultural acts—part livelihood, part ritual. “I’ve always felt safest in the forest,” said an 80-year-old woman from Miyagi who still goes out with friends to gather mushrooms. “But now I go with a radio and a bell and make sure we have more than one person. You feel exposed all the time.”
Closer to home: what the statistics show
Numbers do not tell the whole story, but they give weight to local fears. The environment ministry’s count—six suspected fatal attacks for the fiscal year since April 2025, mirroring 2023—is a stark indicator. Between April and September of this year 103 people were reported injured by bears nationwide. Those figures represent injuries, lost livelihoods, and ruptured sense of safety in communities that have long coexisted with wildlife.
Experts caution against panic. “Most wild animals are not looking for people,” said a conservation scientist. “But when their habitats contract or their natural food fails, the risk of dangerous encounters rises. It’s a predictable ecological response.”
Community coping and heated debates
In towns near the mountains, residents have begun to adapt in small, human ways: group foraging, carrying bear bells, installing better fencing for livestock, and using heavy-duty bins for waste. Some villages schedule collective forest cleanups to reduce attractants.
But there is also heated debate about larger interventions. Local governments sometimes authorize targeted culling or capture-and-relocate programs. Environmentalists and some scientists argue that relocation may not work—bears displaced from one area can become transient, stressing other ecosystems—or that culling risks further reducing genetic diversity in isolated populations.
“We have to balance public safety with long-term conservation,” said a municipal official in Nagano. “Residents want immediate action. But the ecological consequences are complex.”
Stories behind the headlines
It helps to remember the human faces behind the news—neighbors who have lost a father who walked the forest every autumn, shopkeepers who watched customers flee beneath fluorescent lights, and children who now ask their grandparents if the woods are safe.
“He loved the mountains,” a neighbor told reporters of an elderly mushroom picker found in Iwate. “That is where he felt free. We are all so angry and sad and scared.”
Wherever you stand on policy, these moments are a reminder of how closely human lives are braided with the natural world—and how vulnerable both can be when the weave starts to fray.
What can be done?
- Short-term safety: community patrols, bear-aware education, securing garbage and livestock, and better communication systems in remote areas.
- Mid-term measures: habitat management to restore or maintain natural food sources, fencing or deterrents around high-risk human sites, and improved emergency response training.
- Long-term planning: policies that address rural depopulation, sustainable land use, and climate-resilient ecosystems that reduce human-wildlife conflict.
Questions to sit with
How do we protect both people and the wildlife that belongs to these hills? What does safety mean in places where foraging and farming are not just economics but identity? Can modern policy reconcile the urgency of human life with the deep-time realities of ecosystems that don’t respect administrative boundaries?
These are not easy questions. They demand empathy for both the frightened grandmother who no longer ventures into the woods and the bear that, driven by hunger and habitat loss, wandered into a village in search of food.
As Japan navigates this fraught season, the images are intimate and universal: elder hands clutching a basket, a toddler asking why the forest is empty, a supermarket aisle suddenly alive with wild fur. We can respond with fear—and heavy-handed fixes—or with a measured blend of science, community resilience, and respect for the living landscapes we all share.
What would you do if your neighbor began encountering bears? How would your community adapt? The mountains are changing—how will we change with them?
