After a long, gray October in Tokyo—the wettest one I can remember—I finally returned to Shinshu. Usually, October in Japan is my favorite month: crisp air, clear skies, and that stable high-pressure system that settles gently over Kanto. Sometimes a typhoon blows through, but in general it’s a month of calm, bright days and soft sunlight. This year was different. The city was soaked almost daily, and even the air felt heavy.
Today, though, the skies cleared. The drive back along the Kanetsu and Joshinetsu Expressways felt like a reward after weeks of rain. As the road rises out of Kanto, the landscape begins to shift—subtly at first, then dramatically.
At lower elevations, the trees still hold their summer greens. Near Karuizawa, the palette shifts—splashes of orange and gold begin to mingle with the green. Higher up, the mountains spread into a quilt of color: dark cedars woven among yellows and bronzes, and the deep copper of beeches that still hold their leaves as winter presses in. The birches, paler and more delicate, fade to a soft, luminous yellow. The cedars stand out among them—dense and dark, their tops forming serrated triangles that seem to point sharply into the sky.
What struck me most was how the color palette of the landscape followed the climb in elevation—the higher I went, the later the season seemed to be. It was as if I were driving through time, ascending from late summer into the full maturity of autumn.
Down in the valleys, the rice fields have turned a deep, burnt umber. The harvest is done; the stalks have been cut, threshed, and stacked neatly at the edges of the fields. The once-bright green paddies now rest in earthy tones, waiting for winter to settle in.
By the time I reached Shinshu, the air was thin and cool, the sky impossibly clear. After a month of rain, it felt like autumn had finally come back to life.