The Honest Truth About [Japan's] Bathing Snow Monkeys
Those famous wild monkeys warming up in the snow? Sadly a complete fabrication, writes Phil Brown
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You know the shot even if you've never set foot in Japan. A monkey sunk to its shoulders in a steaming pool, maybe a cap of snow on its head, eyes shut in what looks a lot like bliss. Jigokudani Monkey Park has sold more Nagano winter breaks than any ski slope, and the park where the monkeys live now points a live webcam at the water so you can watch the whole soap opera before you've even booked.
Sorry to break it to you this way, but that miracle of nature is pure human fabrication. The pool was built by park staff after a bold young female climbed into a neighbouring inn's bath in 1963 and the rest of the troop copied her. Someone had the bright idea to turn inquisitiveness into an attraction, and now Japan's snow monkeys are talked about in the same circles as Mount Fuji and sushi trains.
But the monkeys didn't get the memo about consistency. On a mild day, when the monkeys can't be bothered, a warden will throw food into the water to coax them in for the cameras. Sometimes they stay away from the pool altogether, much to the chagrin of visitors who have planned a whole day, or even the whole trip, around Japan's bathing monkeys.
Feeling cheated? Don't, not just yet anyway. The macaques are entirely wild and free to wander off whenever they like, and when Kyoto University researchers measured their stress hormones, the bathers came out genuinely calmer, unbothered by the crowd. The scene is stage-managed and completely real at the same time, which is stranger and better than the postcard admits.
Getting It Right
Rather than hopping on the train and expecting to turn up and see a troop of macaques splashing around and posing for your camera, the best visits to Jigokudani happen with a bit of planning and knowlede.
The single most important thing to grasp is that cold days give you the best chance. The monkeys climb in to warm up, not because the calendar says December. A hard, snowy morning in January or February gives you the best odds, while a mild spell, even in the depths of winter, can leave the pool sitting empty and looking rather depressing while the troop forages up in the trees, remaining perfectly dry.
The park posts frequent updates on monkey activity and runs that webcam for precisely this reason. Check both the night before and the morning of your intended visit, and let the animals, not your itinerary, pick the day.
Assuming they're playing ball, get there early. The tour buses from Nagano and Tokyo start disgorging passengers from mid-morning, so the hour after the 08:30 or 09:00 opening is your best shot at having the pool to yourself, or something close to it. The park is currently weighing up timed-entry tickets for the peak season, so check the booking situation before you travel.
Beyond your intended transfer options, there's also the small matter of reaching the monkeys. This is a walk in the woods rather than a drive-up viewpoint, which takes the form of a 25 to 40 minute trail through the forest from the nearest bus stop. In winter the trail turns to packed snow and ice, or mud if the weather is wet and mild. Proper boots aren't optional, and you can rent crampons near the entrance if the path is treacherous, which at below minus ten it often is. Dress as if you're heading up a mountain, because you basically are.
The entry fee is a modest 800 yen, but that's partly due to the fact you aren't guaranteed to see bathing monkeys, regardless of how frigid it is. The monkeys are wild and under no obligation to perform, and there are genuinely days they don't come down at all, even in the bitter cold where a warm bath is a no-brainer. Treat that as the price of watching real animals rather than a zoo exhibit, and if the monkeys are the whole reason you're in Nagano, give yourself a spare morning to try again.
Where the Wilder Monkeys Are
If all this is starting to sound like a lot of faff for a monkey that might not turn up, there's some good news. Jigokudani is far from the only place in Japan to watch macaques, and some of the alternatives let you see them living a good deal more freely.
Arashiyama, Kyoto
On a hilltop above Arashiyama's famous bamboo grove, Iwatayama Monkey Park is home to 120-odd wild macaques who wander wherever they please. When I visited, I was able to get pretty close to the group climbing all over the summit hut, until I realised this is the place where the humans can step inside a mesh enclosure to hand out food.
Essentially, the monkeys roam free and you're the one in the cage. It's a 20-minute climb, it throws in one of the best views over Kyoto, and it works year-round, which makes it the easy pick if you're nowhere near Nagano in the depths of winter.
Takasakiyama, Oita
Down in Kyushu, Takasakiyama plays the game on a different scale entirely. Around 1,000 wild macaques in two large troops come down the mountain on their own terms and take turns at frolicking in an open, unfenced clearing.
Staff feed them at intervals and talk you through the troop politics, the rivalries and the pecking order, which is the real show here. At 520 yen and an easy hop from Beppu, it's the place to watch monkey society rather than chase a single bathing shot.
Koshima, Miyazaki
For the pilgrims, the tiny island of Koshima is where the study of animal culture effectively began. In the 1950s researchers here watched a young macaque named Imo work out how to wash the grit off a sweet potato in the sea, a habit that spread through the troop and quietly upended what we thought animals could pass on to one another. More research site than attraction, but a real story for anyone who cares how we came to know these monkeys at all.
Pests, Not Icons
As you stand photographing these cute, playful and social animals, there's a twist that you really need to know about. The same monkey you've trekked through the snow to photograph is, across much of rural Japan, treated as a serious nuisance, and not some sort of revered, protected icon of Japan.
The species is in no danger at all and the IUCN lists Japanese macaques as Least Concern. Their numbers climbed back through the last century until the recovery ran headlong into shrinking farm towns and abandoned hillsides. Today the macaque is one of the country's worst raiders of crops, and Japan culls tens of thousands of them a year to keep the damage in check.
This juxtaposition puts that idyllic pool in a rather different light. Feeding wild monkeys to hold them in one spot, the very trick that saved the Jigokudani troop from the farmers sixty years ago, is also the thing that makes them watchable in the first place. What you're looking at is a workable truce, not untouched wilderness, and understanding that is what separates a thoughtful visit from a selfie stop.
The whole pest issue only gets worse as tourists, both local and international, try to get even closer to wild monkeys. Remember how quickly they learn? As soon as they figure out humans aren't a threat, and they even bring food, then they become even more brazen in terms of destroying crops and even breaking into houses.
So be a decent guest. Don't feed the monkeys; it's banned and human food is exactly how a troop turns dependent and then into a problem. Keep your distance too, and resist the urge to stare one down, because a hard look is basically a challenge in monkey terms. Tuck food and dangling bags out of sight, and spend your entry fee where it counts, at the well-run, research-linked parks that give these animals a worth beyond the barrel of a farmer's rifle.
Do all that, and a morning with the snow monkeys becomes something better than a photo. You come away having watched a genuinely wild animal on its own terms, in a country still working out how to live alongside it. The postcard was only ever half the story. The other half is the one worth travelling for.