A Winter Retreat

Excerpts from A Winter Retreat

WINDS, February 1998

Photos by Tom Wagner

When December comes to Miyamacho, its proximity to the outside world starts to fade with the first flurry of snow. And with each successive snowfall, Miyamacho seems to retreat further into the mountains that divide this small town at the northern edge of Kyoto Prefecture from the Sea of Japan.

During the three temperate seasons, Miyamacho attracts a steady flow of visitors. Then, the town is easily accessible, just an hour and a half by car from the city of Kyoto. The visitors to Miyamacho are drawn to the town's impressive thatched roof farmhouses. They come to fish and swim in the clear Yura River, hike in the virgin beech forest at the head of the river, feast on edible wild plants, and stay at traditional inns.

Among the locals, preparations begin early for the great seasonal shift. Only the more recently transplanted are fooled by the cloudless skies of October. In the narrow valleys between the ranges and the Yura, wheat, rice and Chinese cabbages are harvested from the fields of the agricultural cooperative and family gardens. After this harvest of the cultivated land comes a harvest of a more solitary and secretive kinds as the locals comb the steep slopes of the nearby mountains for the rare, expensive 'matsutake' mushrooms. Many of the mountains are leased just for the matsutake season. Though leasing a mountain can cost up to a million yen, fortunes can be made from the fungus; or they can be lost, if, as happens some years, the mushrooms simply fail to show.


Miyama has long supplied the kimono industry with beautifully woven obi. One of my friends did this as take-home work--for much lower wages than anyone in the city would.


The ubiquitous television entrances four generations living together under a thatched roof in the hamlet of Ashu,, the very last settlement before the mountains really begin. In all but this national habit, the people of Ashu are stubbornly independent.

Father Son

I first went to meet this cattle farming family because their timber frame barn was sheathed entirely in corrugated plastic, an ingenious way of keeping the hay and grain dry. In deference to the old caste system, this family only raised cattle into calves, leaving the butchering to others.


THE big event of the winter: a star visits the village.

Farmer and Baby

Only 85 years apart, my friend (seated, background) and my youngest child (in sling, foreground), share the warmth of a barn in February.


Winter's a slower season for this friend of mine, who made a brilliant business out of selling homemade poultry sausage (a completely Western concept!) to tourists visiting our thatched village from the cities.


Another couple of friends: a philosopher-turned-shiitake farmer and his clever wife, who run a thatched inn with the best soba (buckwheat noodles) for 100 miles around. The sunken hearth and the warm sake attract nostalgic visitors from the cities, who soon recall the stinging eyes (from the smoke) and the eternally cold extremities of the old way of life.


In the solitary winter, the silence of snow falling on thatch is glorious.

A general and increasing busyness can be detected as the days grow shorter. The power of the sun, even as it dims, is practically worshipped. From late morning through early afternoon, everything from red 'azuki' beans to the rice straw used for New ear's decorations is brought outside to dry. Chinese cabbages and daikon radishes are dried slightly before pickling. persimmons are peeled and strung up under the rafters. And chestnuts, a favorite winter treat for the children, are gathered, boiled and hung to dry.

Some of the daikon harvested in late November are buried again in mounds of loose earth. Long stakes are planted firmly in these mounds so that this staple may be found in the deep snow and dug out as necessary throughout the winter and early spring. Raw Chinese cabbage is wrapped in newspaper and stored in cool sheds. Locals chop firewood and split it by the ton. They reinforce eaves with uprights that will not be removed until April. Throughout the town, earth is shifted and obstacles are cleared to create space where the prodigious amounts of snow that will later fall can be stowed.

Before the bad weather begins, every home has to be surrounded by corrugated steel or plastic, which will protect windows from the pressure of accumulating snow. Generations living comfortably apart in the warmer months grow closer with the necessity of winter labor. Young, city-dwelling relatives return the favors of the previous months--packages of vegetables and rice delivered from the country by overnight express--by appearing on weekends in November to help build the 2 meter-high snow barriers.