Hunting for Hyrule in Hokkaido

The setting for the ‘Legend of Zelda’ games may be mythical, but Ash Bhardwaj thinks he’s found it in Japan

In my mind’s eye, Japanese culture is like Janus, the Roman god who looks to both the past and the future. Japan reveres nature, myths and traditional arts, but also leads the world in wacky cartoons, microelectronics and computer game design.

These aspects combined in 1991, when The Legend of Zelda: A Link to the Past was released for the Super Nintendo Entertainment System. In this adventure – the third installment in the Zelda series of video games, and rated one of the best games of all time – the player takes control of Link, an unlikely hero who must find the kidnapped Princess Zelda in the magical land of Hyrule.

As a teenager, I spent hours exploring the woods, mountains and dungeons of this land, solving puzzles, fighting monsters and meeting random characters. The game’s creator, Shigeru Miyamoto, said that he wanted it to evoke the sense of awe and excitement that he had felt as a child, when he explored the forests and caves near his home on Honshu, Japan’s main island.

I’m certain that The Legend of Zelda developed my own sense of curiosity. Since then, I’ve explored woods and mountains across the world, solving my own puzzles and meeting my fair share of characters along the way. But I’ve always wanted to find an earthly Hyrule. A place that evoked that feeling of weirdness and wonder.

Miyamoto used the Japanese landscape as the template for his graphics, and drew on Japanese myths for the story. But he did not just translate Honshu into pixels. Honshu is long, thin, and mountainous, whereas Hyrule was square, with forests, marshlands and a single large volcano, Death Mountain.

The only place that I knew of that might match this blend of legend and topography was Japan’s northernmost island. Hokkaido is flatter and less populated than the rest of the country, but has a volcanic mountain range in its centre. It is also home to the indigenous Ainu, with their unique traditions and stories. Hokkaido even has its own monsters. I had to go there...

“The bears are very shy,” said

Kikuo, my guide to the mysteries of Hokkaido’s Maeda Ippoen forest reserve. “And they usually run away when they hear people. But only 10 people come into the reserve every day, and the bears have been known to attack if they’re surprised. So I always carry a bear bell.”

She showed me a small brass cowbell, attached to her pack. It jingled as she walked. “And this, just in case.” From a holster, she pulled out some pepper spray.

Lacking such a weapon myself, I tried my best to move noisily.

We found a stream, flowing out of a shallow depression, where cold, clear water bubbled up from the earth. Bushes filled the clearing, reaching for the sunlight beyond the shade of an overhanging pine tree.

“Springs are special places,” Kikuo said. “They are a bit magical, and creatures called koro-pok-guru live under the plants around them. They are like fairies, but more naughty. Gnomes, maybe?”

I thought of the Lost Woods of Hyrule, where mischievous creatures ran amok.

We followed the stream downhill until it emptied into a muddy morass. All along the swamp’s margins, the bushes were dying, and lifeless tree trunks sat half-submerged in the centre. The air was filled with the smell of rotten eggs and, along the margins, holes bubbled with steam and hot, grey mud.

“It’s an acidic hot pool,” said Kikuo, “This was once a normal patch of forest, until a thermal vent appeared. The hot water comes up from the earth and brings sulphur dioxide with it, which is why you get the rotten-egg smell.” She took a carton of eggs and a small net from her bag, then looped the net over the end of a long stick. She placed the eggs in the net, walked over to a bubbling hole the size of a large saucepan, and let the net dangle inside.

Five minutes later, I lifted it out and cracked an egg against a nearby rock. It was perfectly boiled. Mount Iwo, nearby, shows what can happen when

Maeda Ippoen Forest, main