Text and photography: Roberto Iván Cano
Kyushu, Japan · December 2025
At the end of November, when autumn had already surrendered to winter in almost all of Japan, we decided to travel south to Kyushu: the volcanic island, the warm island, the island that still holds a little fire in its trees. We took a two-week trip that had no specific destination beyond one obsession: finding the last reds of Japanese autumn, momijigari, that almost poetic custom of chasing leaves as if they were something you could catch.
And the curious thing is that, as often happens on good trips, what we found wasn't exactly what we were looking for.
Everyday beauty and Japanese nobility
Yes, there were maples ablaze in the mountains, temples covered with leaves as if someone had painted them by hand, and paths that crunched underfoot like old paper. But there was also much more: the almost supernatural calm of the temples, the way Japan manages to make everything—from a handrail to a sliding door—beautiful. And above all, that Japanese nobility, which leaves a feeling of absolute security. You can leave a camera on a bench, walk away for ten minutes and come back, and it's still there. No one touches it. For a photographer, that's almost science fiction.
Kyushu: volcanoes, onsen, and the Japan not seen on postcards
Kyushu is not the Japan of postcards full of tourists. Here, mainly Japanese people travel, many looking for hot springs, volcanoes, nature. And there are plenty of volcanoes. Sakurajima, for example, spits smoke almost daily, reminding you that this island is alive, that it beats beneath the asphalt. In some cities, columns of sulfurous steam rise from the ground—the so-called “hells” (Onsen jigoku) that envelop the streets in a warm mist, as if the earth were breathing.
Traveling light: walking, observing, and eating without schedules
Between hikes, ferries, temples, and back roads, we moved lightly. We ate where we could, when we could. On some treks, we carried freeze-dried food from Okre: hot water, a sachet, and done. It wasn't the main focus of the trip, but it was another small freedom: not depending on schedules or finding anything open in the middle of a Japanese forest. Eating while looking at a red valley is priceless.
Yakushima: the primeval forest where time stands still
But if there was one place that truly moved me, it was Yakushima. A remote island that seems out of time. Sharp mountains, almost two thousand meters plunging directly into the sea, trapping the Pacific's humidity and creating impossible forests. Ancient cedars, some over three thousand years old, covered in moss. Monkeys observing you in silence. Tiny deer crossing the paths.
This is where the imagery for Princess Mononoke was born, and it's not hard to see why. Walking through these primeval forests, you feel that the place has something sacred, as if the spirit of the forest were still there, watching you from behind every trunk.
An adventure not measured in kilometers
In the end, it didn't matter so much whether we found more or fewer red leaves. The real journey was something else: peace, respect, the beauty hidden in the everyday. Kyushu is not visited. Kyushu is walked slowly. And when you leave, you realize that, without quite knowing how, it has changed you a little inside.
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