For decades, the mountains of the Minakami region were locked in what ecologists call a "green desert." Following the Second World War, the Japanese government subsidized the planting of fast-growing cedar and cypress trees to supply building materials for a rising nation. These evergreens grew so thick that the sun could no longer touch the earth. In the perpetual twilight of these groves, the underbrush died away, and the mountain became a silent place where the Japanese hare and the copper pheasant could find no food.
The golden eagle, a raptor of immense grace and power, found itself a stranger in its own home. The dense canopy acted as a physical barrier, preventing the birds from navigating the airspace to dive for prey. Without the open meadows of the old broadleaf forests, the eagles could no longer hunt, and their numbers began to fade into the mountain mist.
Dejima, working with the Nature Conservation Society of Japan, is leading a quiet rebellion against this monoculture. By strategically felling patches of the 10,000-hectare Akaya Forest, he is creating small, sun-drenched clearings. These windows in the timber allow indigenous plants to wake from their long dormancy. As the meadows return, so do the hares that molt from brown to white with the seasons, and the eagles follow closely behind.
This work requires a patient hand and a long view of time. Dejima advocates for the creation of more conservation roles to bring younger people back to the rural highlands, viewing the restoration of the forest as a way to restore the human community as well. The goal is not merely to plant trees, but to manage a transition back to a natural, deciduous forest that can support life in all its complexity. In the steady gaze of the breeding pair perched high in the Akaya, there is evidence that the balance is finally shifting.