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After three decades immersed in Japan's subtle beauty and wild diversity, the summer and late spring of 2026 became a defining season for me. I am a professional photographer and lifelong explorer, but at heart, I am still a seeker—chasing not just rare birds but the essence of the wild itself. I do love Shrinrin Yoku. This year, I focused on the Northern Japan Alps—a realm of misty peaks, ancient forests, and elusive avian treasures where every dawn feels like the opening scene of an old adventure novel. For months, I led several private Japan birding tours for photographers, splitting our nights between the elemental comfort of campgrounds and the restorative luxury of onsen ryokans nestled in tiny mountain hamlets. Some evenings, we shared stories around the campfire, watching shooting stars arc over the pines, the air thick with woodsmoke and anticipation for the next morning’s quest. Every day began before the first rays pierced the canopy, cameras in hand, hearts beating with the thrill of the unknown. The scent of mountain air and rainforest—rain on soft moss, the warmth of earth, and the cool mist of pure mountain vapour—became the backdrop to our unfolding adventure.

Birding photography in these remote alpine regions is a discipline that demands both technical mastery and a deep respect for nature’s rhythms—but it is also a pursuit of wonder, a constant flirtation with the extraordinary. The light in the Alps changes by the hour, casting golden veils through the mist at dawn and deep shadows by midday. Each day was sublime: sometimes a Ruddy Kingfisher would appear in a shaft of sunlight, as if conjured by some silent wish. To capture the split-second beat of wings or the shimmer of feathers in flight, one must anticipate both the bird’s behaviour and the mood of the landscape. My approach always balances patience with readiness—waiting for hours in camouflaged silence, listening to the wind, the river, and the distant cry of a hawk, then reacting instantly when a kingfisher darts into view or a flycatcher perches just so. Every image blends luck, experience, and the right gear, but also a spark of romantic longing for beauty. I am as passionate about sharing these techniques with my tour participants as I am about the birds themselves—every outing shaped by a sense of shared adventure and discovery.

Our primary quest was the Ruddy Kingfisher (Halcyon coromanda), a bird both legendary and enigmatic. Slightly larger than a thrush, with a brilliant cinnamon-red plumage and a heavy coral bill, the Ruddy Kingfisher is the rare prize of the northern Japanese Alps rainforests. It prefers secluded riverbanks and wet woodlands and is most active at dawn and dusk, feeding mainly on frogs and small aquatic creatures. Tracking and photographing this kingfisher demands patience, a keen eye, and a thorough knowledge of its habits—skills I’ve honed during ten years of scouting across the prefectures of Northern Honshu, Tohoku, Japan, Fukushima, Yamagata, Iwate, Miyagi, Akita, and Aomori, so when I set out to explore these regions ten years ago, I needed a base camp so I purchased a hundred year old Komika in Niigata along the Sea of Japan, and had it fully resored, and moderized, very comfy basecampe. 

Photographing the Ruddy Kingfisher demands persistence and respect for the wild. Despite its haunting call, the Ruddy Kingfisher remains a master of evasion, slipping through the shadows as quietly as a falling leaf. Its shy nature and low, throaty call make sightings rare, and even more rarely does it sit still in the open. I rely on my honed senses and years of fieldwork, but above all, on my favourite gear: the Nikon Z9 and the NIKKOR Z 400mm f/2.8 TC VR S lens. This camera-lens combination is my go-to for birding in the Alps. The Z9’s autofocus speed and deep buffer let me track birds in flight with unparalleled precision, while its silent shutter helps avoid startling skittish species. The NIKKOR Z 400mm f/2.8 TC VR S lens is such a great lens; I did a lens review on the Luminous Landscape.  It’s a marvel of engineering—remarkably sharp across the frame, with beautiful colour rendering and bokeh that isolates subjects perfectly against tangled backgrounds. The built-in 1.4x teleconverter extends the reach to 560mm without sacrificing quality, making it incredibly versatile for both distant kingfishers and close-up songbirds. The lens’s robust weather sealing and balanced weight are a blessing for long hikes and sudden weather changes in the Alps. I can shoot handheld when needed, but its tripod collar and vibration reduction make those long dawn vigils far more comfortable and productive.

Yet the Alps offer riches far beyond a single species. Each tour brought new encounters: the Rustic Bunting (Emberiza rustica), with its streaked brown plumage, singing from shrubby clearings; the elegant Japanese Wagtail (Motacilla grandis), teetering along alpine streams; and the secretive Japanese Robin (Larvivora akahige), its orange throat flashing in the undergrowth. We watched Brown-eared Bulbuls (Hypsipetes amaurotis) mobbing the treetops, Blue-and-white Flycatchers (Cyanoptila cyanomelana) flitting like jewels through the canopy, and Narcissus Flycatchers (Ficedula narcissina) lighting up the forest with their vivid yellow chests.

Other highlights included the Grey-capped Greenfinch (Chloris sinica), the fierce Bull-headed Shrike (Lanius bucephalus), Black-faced Buntings (Emberiza spodocephala), Daurian Redstarts (Phoenicurus auroreus), Japanese Bush Warblers (Horornis diphone), Yellow-breasted Buntings (Emberiza aureola), Meadow Buntings (Emberiza cioides), and the ever-alert Asian Brown Flycatcher (Muscicapa dauurica). Each species presented its own challenge: some bred in dense thickets, others in open meadows or riversides, all taking full advantage of the diverse habitats of the Northern Japan Alps. Their breeding cycles, calls, and behaviours became the focus of our lenses and our learning.

Equally essential to my fieldwork are binoculars—no birding trip is complete without them. My choice is the Zeiss Victory SF 8x42, a favourite among birders worldwide and recommended by me and my freinds at the Audubon Society for its wide field of view, superb low-light performance, and lightweight, ergonomic design. The Zeiss Victory SF 8x42’s sharp, bright image and fast focus wheel allow me to spot even the smallest movements in dense foliage, making it easier to locate birds before raising my camera. Their balance and comfort let me scan treetops and riverbanks for hours without fatigue. For the groups I lead and me, these binoculars are indispensable for tracking birds in motion and spotting subtle plumage marks before lining up the perfect shot.

Japan is a birder’s paradise, home to over 600 recorded species, nearly 60% of which are migratory. The island nation is divided by the Blakiston’s Line and Wadase Line—ecological boundaries that shape which species are found in each region and dictate their seasonal movements. These lines make Japan uniquely rich in biodiversity, drawing enthusiasts from across Asia and beyond to witness the ever-changing tapestry of wildlife.

This summer, my diligent scouting and deep familiarity with the Alps paid off. My birding Japan workshops were a resounding success—every participant left with hard-won images of birds many had dreamed of for years. With the word spreading, I am now accepting bookings for spring through July private photo workshops and tours for 2027. Spaces are limited and filling quickly, as photographers seek a chance to experience the wild grandeur of the Northern Japan Alps and the thrill of capturing its most secretive residents.

With a month of summer still ahead, I watch as the highland birds I photographed in spring and early summer begin their gradual migration southward, embarking on journeys to their wintering grounds in southern Asia. The air is tinged with both nostalgia and anticipation, for each migration is a love letter to the wild—an epic in feathers and flight, written each year anew. For a short while, I’ll retreat to my kominka beach house in Niigata, letting the ocean winds carry away the fatigue of the season as I edit images and savour the scent of clean, fresh sea air. But the romance of the mountains calls me back: before the great avian exodus peaks, I’ll return to the Alps for more scouting. Each year brings new surprises, fleeting moments, and the thrill of the chase—perhaps in a year or two, I’ll offer late-summer and early-autumn photo workshops, following thousands of birds as they cross the ancient mountains I now call home.

Contact me to book your 2027 private birding photo tour in Japan's northern Alps.
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