On March 2, 2025, I was out the door at 6 a.m., beginning a carefully choreographed journey from home in Tokyo to Miyota Station, where I had ended Day 10 of my walk along the Nakasendo.
Originally, I’d hoped to tackle Day 11 either as a long day trip or as part of a multi-day push toward the Wada Pass. Reality intervened. This stretch of rural Japan has almost no public transportation, no convenient train access, and taxis are essentially mythical creatures—even with advance reservations. In the end, I opted for a long day hike followed by an overnight stay in Mochizuki, timed specifically to catch the single weekday-morning bus back to the train network.
Thankfully, the weather was on my side.
Back on the Road Through Nagano
Leaving Miyota Station, I rejoined the Nakasendo exactly where I’d stopped the day before and continued deeper into Nagano Prefecture. A large portion of the Nakasendo runs through Nagano, curving in a broad hook before turning southwest toward the Kiso Valley and eventually Gifu Prefecture—still many days away on my itinerary.
I passed through the former post town of Otai (sometimes written Odai), small but rich in preserved history. With such a long walk ahead, I saved detailed exploration for a future deep dive on each post town.
Shrines, Sweets, and a Shift in Atmosphere
On the outskirts of Iwamurata-juku (post town 22), now part of modern Saku, I came across Sumiyoshi Jinja. Known for its 400-year-old zelkova tree, the shrine felt strangely quiet—maintained, yet almost forgotten. Despite clear signs of care, it carried a weight and age that felt deeper than most shrines I’d encountered so far.
Not far beyond, I stumbled upon a 24-hour unmanned sweet shop called Anytime Sweets. Operating on the honor system, it was only the second such shop I’d seen along the Nakasendo—and of course, I went in. With limited dining options expected in Mochizuki, dessert suddenly became guaranteed rather than hopeful.
A few purchases later, my pack heavier and morale improved, I continued on.
Past Iwamurata, the character of the Nakasendo changed dramatically. The modern, suburban feel of the northern sections gave way to something quieter and more recognizably historic.
Hills, History, and River Crossings
Soon after, I reached Komagata-jinja, believed to date back to 1486. Perched on a hill and dedicated to paired deities on horseback, it required another steep climb. Tired as I was, I knew I wouldn’t pass this way again—so up I went.
Less than five minutes later, I arrived at Shionada-juku, established in 1603 by shogunate order. The town existed to support travelers crossing the Chikuma River, requiring boats and overnight lodging on either side.
I followed their lead and stopped to rest. A picnic table near the former river landing offered a perfect lunch spot, complete with a clear view of Mount Asama, now mostly free of snow.
Long Miles and a Welcome Descent
After lunch, farmland stretched out once again. The wind was sharp, but the sun—absorbed gratefully by my black winter gear—kept the cold manageable.
Yawata-juku, also known as Hachiman-juku, was home to an especially significant Hachiman shrine. Given its historical importance, I made time for a proper visit, even as my schedule began to slip.
By the time I reached the outskirts of Mochizuki City—marked by manhole covers bearing a running horse—I was tired, hungry, and keenly aware that several kilometers still lay ahead.
Reaching the Uryu-zaka Ichirizuka milestone brought relief… followed immediately by dread. The road ahead climbed sharply toward another pass, and after nearly six hours of walking, the thought of more uphill was not welcome.
Then, mercy: a Nakasendo sign pointed to a side trail leading downhill into Mochizuki.
Arrival in Mochizuki
The final descent into town was lined with centuries-old protective stones—dosojin, Kannon, and Jizo—many freshly adorned with shimenawa and shide. These markers have guarded travelers here for generations.
At the bottom, the road bent into the classic S-curve of a masugata defensive entrance, ushering me into what was once a bustling post town and is now a quiet rural community.
My lodging for the night, Aokiso, sat along the river just minutes from the trail. Established in the Edo period, it looked slightly abandoned at first glance—but a warm welcome from the owners (and curious giggles from their granddaughter) quickly erased any doubts.
The room was simple, clean, and overlooked the river. After soaking in the local hot spring bath, I ate my modest dinner—sandwich and sweets included—and settled in.
I was the only guest that night. The dark hallway leading to the shared bathroom felt a little eerie, but if the ghosts of the Nakasendo were present, they were polite enough to let me sleep soundly.
Snow and What Lay Ahead
Snow began falling the next morning just as I left for the bus stop. It followed me all the way to Sakudaira Station and accompanied my shinkansen ride back to Tokyo.
I left reluctantly, knowing that the next section—from Mochizuki toward the Wada Pass—would be one of the most logistically demanding stretches yet. With no public transportation, a long uphill climb, and weather that needed to cooperate, it would be weeks before I could return.
But that challenge, I knew, was part of what made the Nakasendo unforgettable.
