Text: Keisuke Kimura

This year in Sapporo, while the snowfall has been about average or even above average, the temperatures have been remarkably warmer than usual. There were several days throughout the winter that made me think, “Could spring be arriving already?” But now that March has arrived, I'm finally starting to feel spring's arrival in earnest.

Spring is the season of awakening for all living things—people, plants, and of course, animals.

I imagine this is true not just for anglers like myself, but for all who enjoy hiking in Hokkaido: the awakening of animals, especially bears, is a concern. In recent years, news of brown bears appearing in populated areas has been heard almost annually in Hokkaido. And not just once or twice. The news of a Japanese black bear entering a supermarket in Akita Prefecture at the end of last November is still fresh in our memories.

A familiar comment in these reports is from experts stating, “Forests are being destroyed, forcing animals out of their habitats and into populated areas.” I couldn't quite accept this explanation. I'd like to explain why.

This story traces back to when and how Hokkaido was developed. Keep in mind that the term “development” here refers to the process by Japanese settlers from Honshu clearing mountains and wilderness to transform them into usable land, not the lands of the Ainu people.

Hokkaido's settlement traces back to 1869 during the Meiji era. Its history began with the establishment of the Hokkaido Development Commission, and the first large-scale immigration is considered to be the arrival of nearly 1,000 settler soldiers in Sapporo in 1875. Records indicate that in 1881, the Emperor at the time toured coastal cities within Hokkaido, such as Otaru, Sapporo, Muroran, and Hakodate, showing that coastal cities were already forming by this time.

Twenty years later, in 1901, Hokkaido's population exceeded one million. Settlements had likely developed to some extent in the inland areas as well. Another twenty years on, by 1920, the population surpassed two million, the municipal system was implemented, and nearly 250 municipalities were established. In other words, this period is considered the peak of large-scale settlement in Hokkaido. Note that the main points of this content are covered in the social studies curriculum for fourth-grade elementary school students in Sapporo City and are not specialized knowledge.

Here, I would like to consider the relationship between wildlife and humans at that time. Since this was a period when untouched nature in Hokkaido was being opened up one after another, it is easy to imagine that the boundary between the expanding human society and the natural world inhabited by wildlife was becoming blurred. Historical records indicate that during the late 1910s, the final years of Hokkaido's development, incidents like the Sankeibetsu Bear Incident and the Asahi Village Incident occurred—events often cited as some of the worst wildlife damage in history. This lends credence to the idea that wildlife habitats were diminishing at that time.

Fast forward to the 2020s. As mentioned at the outset, there seems to be increasing talk of wildlife appearing in human settlements. Now, consider this: how many concrete examples can you name of recent projects involving clearing mountains or wilderness to build artificial structures? The plan by ORIX Corporation to build 45 wind turbines in the upper watershed area of Hokkaido's renowned Shiribetsu River comes to mind. However, beyond that, I couldn't think of any other examples of large-scale projects. Certainly, technology has advanced, and our lives have become more affluent. Some people might feel that everyday life and “nature” have grown distant. We occasionally see such sentiments reported in the media as well.

However, when I venture into the mountains through activities like fishing or winter sports, I sometimes wonder if wildlife is truly being pushed out in this Reiwa era. This feeling arises when I see man-made structures being swallowed up by nature. Driving along neglected mountain farm roads or walking along riverbanks, I occasionally encounter buildings that look as if they might collapse at any moment. Judging by their construction, they are often from around the early Showa period. They were probably the dwellings of pioneers. Such structures can be seen throughout Hokkaido. In an era when people were desperately struggling to survive, human society likely extended over a much wider area than it does today. Considering this, one could argue that compared to those times, the world inhabited by wildlife is gradually reclaiming its former vastness.

So why are wild animals now appearing in human society? Various factors come to mind, but one reason might be the weakening role of mountainous farming villages as gateways to the mountains. Traveling to different regions within Hokkaido, one sees the state of various towns. Towns where shutters hang down across commercial facilities that must have once thrived. Towns where the only place to buy groceries and other goods is a Secoma convenience store. And towns where even that is absent. In the past, each community, close to the natural world, had its own way of preparing for wildlife, acting as a gatekeeper. It's easy to imagine that this function is now failing.

It's not that wildlife is being driven out and into human society; one could argue that human society is the one being driven out.

Today's stage for development is digital. And information, too, spreads at incredible speed across vast distances in the digital realm. Precisely because it's difficult to feel nature now, I want to be someone who strives to grasp nature's true form correctly.