He Left His Job, Moved to Rural Japan, and Built a New Career

When I returned to Japan at 50, it was to keep a promise.

Fresh out of university in 1990, I had the opportunity to teach English through Japan’s Ministry of Education. I had no idea how to teach, but I wasn’t about to pass up the chance to live in Asia.

I expected to leave Japan on my own after a few years. Instead, I met the woman who would become my wife.

It happened in an unusual way. While we were rock climbing about 50 feet off the ground, a friend asked me in broken English if I wanted a lover. It struck me as a funny time to ask, but I was intrigued.

Through a friend of a friend, we were introduced, and we married a couple of years later. More than 30 years on, we’re still together.

The next chapter of our life as a couple began

My wife and I embarked on a shared adventure that took us to the Middle East, including the United Arab Emirates and Qatar, where I worked as a university lecturer.

When we lived in the UAE, we seized every opportunity to meet people from all corners of the globe. These friendships endure today.

Life rarely goes as planned. In the early 2000s, before we had kids, my wife’s older sister was diagnosed with lung cancer and died just 90 days later. After that, my wife told me that our plans would have to change — we’d have to return to Japan when her parents got older. I agreed, and we got on with our lives.

Then, almost 15 years later, in 2015, my wife said, “The kids and I are moving back to Japan. Are you coming?” So my wife, 12-year-old daughter, 8-year-old son, and I moved to rural Japan.

An unexpected reinvention

Until then, I’d always felt I was the master of my own fate, so it was difficult to take a backseat and allow my wife to write the next chapter of our family’s story. But family is my priority, so I capitulated.

Life in the Persian Gulf had been cosmopolitan and exciting. I didn’t know how to survive, let alone thrive, in Yamanashi Prefecture, where my wife is from, 90 minutes west of Tokyo by express train.

About a year after arriving in Japan, I began to see opportunities in the area’s overlooked tourism potential. One day, I stumbled upon a nearly abandoned village tucked into the foothills of the Japanese Southern Alps. There was a stunning shrine there, weathered but still standing.

Further up the road, I found a mountaintop lake filled with brightly colored koi. Deeper in the forest, a 1,200-year-old shrine revealed itself at the top of a long stone staircase, guarded by a tree that has stood for over a millennium. Nearby, a thundering waterfall completed the scene. What struck me wasn’t just the beauty but the absence of people. Even some locals don’t know these places exist.

I realized the run-up to the 2020 Tokyo Olympics could be an opportunity to showcase rural Japan to international visitors, so I started a blog, Close to Mount Fuji. Through it, I began receiving offers from locals and foreigners to collaborate on projects.

It all led to a bigger surprise: becoming a guide for Butterfield & Robinson, a travel company I had admired since university. As a student, I dreamed of joining one of its tours. Decades later, I was leading them.

I manifested the world I wanted in a place I hadn’t chosen

At the beginning of the pandemic, I received an email from a stranger who had seen me on TV promoting local tourism. He invited me for a ride in the mountains. As it turned out, he was a fellow Canadian and the head coach of Japan’s Olympic triathlon team. He encouraged me to invest in a carbon-fiber road bike, and before long, I was cycling up mountains and through stunning valleys, feeling a sense of freedom.

Today, I guide cyclists through Japan. None of this reinvention was easy, but it has been rewarding. The travelers who join my tours continually challenge my assumptions and inspire me with their stories.

I also host guests at two small Airbnbs on my property and lead tours throughout the Mount Fuji region. Many travelers are searching for experiences beyond the major sights. They want something quieter, more personal, and less scripted.

Sometimes that means a walk through Aokigahara Forest away from the crowds. Other times it’s paddleboarding on a spring-fed lake beneath Mount Fuji or a drive into the mountains.

I’ve learned to trust serendipity. When I discover a hidden gem and share it with others, I still feel a childlike excitement.

When my wife told me she was moving back to Japan, she reminded me that she had spent years overseas, far from her family, for my sake. She asked me to make the same sacrifice.

At first, I saw the move as giving something up. Instead, it became a liberation. With my wife’s support, I built a life filled with new challenges and unexpected opportunities. Rather than going out into the world, the world now comes to me.

As I head into my 60s, I can’t think of many other ways I’d rather be living.