Switch on the news over the past few years, and you would have seen a recurring theme of bears wandering close to homes, sometimes sleeping on balconies, even ransacking kitchens.

According to the Japanese Ministry of the Environment, between April and November 2023 there were 193 bear attacks on people with six fatalities, the highest number of attacks since records started, 17 years ago.

And in a recent NHK interview with Tokyo University of Agriculture professor Koji Yamazaki, the long, hot summer of 2023 “was particularly problematic due to a nationwide lack of food. Bears are entering residential areas probably because they do not fear humans, and due to a shortage of food, like beechnuts.”

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As the number of animals straying into residential areas has increased, so have calls for a bear cull, or the second most invasive animals, boar.

But far from being just a massacre to protect homes and crops, Japanese farmers and hunters have used the situation to revive traditional methods of hunting. In turn, hyper-regional, ancient and obscure hunting practices have seen a renewed interest, in a country far more diverse than many urban Japanese realise.

Deer and boar meat, for example, form part of many a traditional diet, typically eaten in winter as a source of protein. These days, a resurgent interest in localism, in snowy areas as well as further south, has led to this kind of wild game trending among consumers, with many stores and restaurants specialising in wild-meat products.

So, the rationale behind culling animals is not only for human safety but for the sake of tradition and nutrition, as part of an off-grid lifestyle. Some people, of course, just like to shoot at things.

Today, despite the wind and freezing temperatures in Kanagawa, 10 people have gathered, some from as far east as Yokohama. One keeps cages of howling dogs in the back of a beaten-up old pickup truck, next to a Jeep and two brand new trucks. Most attendees are dressed like models in an American camping magazine, and all are armed with shotguns.

“The skill is not difficult, but people have to know the mountain,” says Koji Sekimata, veteran hunter of 25 years and group leader, after briefing the others on the day’s route, the positions they will take and the GPS units they will carry into the trees.

“If we know where the animals sleep and how they move, we can predict where to stand. Having said that, I call people who turn up only now and then ‘salaryman hunters’, and they usually miss even if the animal is really close.”

Big-built, rugged and straightforward, Sekimata has seen changes in attitudes to hunting. He says that these days, “young males are into the notion of culling pests, young women are more into wild game and they want to get their own meat and eat it. Either way, it is only possible if you have money and time.”

However, “after the trend gained momentum two or three years ago – around the time of Covid”, he says, about 70 per cent of them drop out after a short time.

Further south, in coastal Kanagawa, Masato Hyakutake is an organic farmer, who owns a lodge that houses volunteers looking to learn farming skills as part of the Worldwide Opportunities on Organic Farms initiative. He started hunting as a hobby six years ago, near his land in Yugawara, known for its delicious citrus fruit.

He sees hunting as part of a sustainable lifestyle, his main issue being the boars that rampage through his farm. “They destroy everything,” he says, “they eat all the mandarins we farm, they gobble the fallen fruit and eat the fallen chestnuts. They completely annihilate fields if they go after potatoes.”

Unlike hunters who enjoy the thrill of stalking and shooting, Hyakutake’s main aim is to protect his crops, so he uses a snare placed on paths the animals frequent, referred to as kemono no michi, or “beast trails”.

Hyakutake takes us to a site of dense shrubbery and trees with no apparent remarkable features, but he says this is the main route that boar and deer take through his property. Even though trapping sounds easier than, say, hunting and tracking with dogs, the animal still needs to be killed, and as he does not have a gun licence, he knifes the beasts himself.

“There are dangers in terms of the boar going crazy,” he says, “and it is quite grotesque, the intestines come out so you need psychological toughness to overcome that. I was used to filleting fish, but animals are on another level. And during summer there are a lot of ticks and other insects and the smell is intense.”

At one of Hyakutake’s recent rooftop gatherings, the guests include a property agent who specialises in traditional Japanese homes, a yoga instructor, another guest house owner and a local student. Hyakutake has prepared a giant barbecue with boar meat, grilled with sweet sauce and vegetables from his farm.

“I’m interested in the way people in the past were procuring their food, and I want to show my volunteer workers from across the world,” he says. “It is a bit like fishing, the joy of when you catch something. It is more delicious because you got it yourself. I’m thinking of making boar ham, bacon and ramen chashu [pork belly] to put in a hotpot.”

If not eaten by the hunters themselves, culled meat is sent to processing facilities then distributed to restaurants such as Momonjiya, a hotpot eatery in the middle of Tokyo’s Ryogoku district, famous for feeding Japan’s most highly concentrated number of sumo wrestlers. A favourite is botan nabe, or “peony pot”, boar meat laid out like flower petals, heralded by numerous boar carcasses hanging upside down outside the restaurant.

Amakara Kumakara, in central Tokyo, is a new type of bistro, specialising in game sourced from around the country. The small tavern offers dishes such as deer steak, boar sausage and raw bear meat served with peppercorns. Chef Ikuo Hayashi says game’s recent popularity came about “basically, because it is delicious”, while the mass production of meat adversely affects the flavour.

“Unless it is free range,” he says, “livestock is given food such as corn, which is mass-produced and grown using fertiliser. Factory birds can hardly move and are given antibiotics so they don’t get sick. It makes the taste different.”

Another factor “is that mass-produced meat is processed at the same age”, says Hayashi.

“For beef and pork it can be around one to four years, but with a wild boar, it might be seven years old when it is hunted, so I have to adjust the cooking accordingly.”

While it might all sound like a bit of a hipster endeavour, hunting with dogs has existed in Japan since the Jomon era (circa 10,000BC to 300BC). The earliest evidence of dog and man cohabitation can be found in a rock shelter in Ehime prefecture, which dates back around 9,000 years.

Analysis of archaeological materials shows that hunting dogs were small, similar to the Shiba Inu. Most Japanese dog breeds – the Akita, Shiba, Kishu, Shikoku, Kai and Hokkaido – were developed as hunting dogs to suit the terrain in Japan’s rural areas.

The cute and fashionable Shiba, the internet’s favourite doge meme, is traditionally a game- and bird-hunting dog. The majestic Akita, known for its fluffy coat, adorable squishy face and unwavering loyalty, was historically used by Matagi subsistence hunters with roots in Tohoku prefecture.

Matagi bear hunters still exist in rural areas of northern Japan. They differ from regular hunters in that they are part of a culture that has existed since the Muromachi era (1336-1573), with specific rituals as well as spiritual beliefs pertaining to mountain gods.

These hunters exist in communities such as Ani, in Akita prefecture, a remote mountainous area in northern Honshu Island. The drive takes us through a verdant valley, along winding roads, where we meet two Matagi at a traditional Ani inn, known for its bear-meat hotpot.

Local hunter Hideo Suzuki, 76, and Ko Masuda, 29 – who moved to Akita to pursue the hunting lifestyle, having entered a clan while still at university – take us deep into the mountains in their pickup truck. While driving, Suzuki explains that the Matagi don’t just kill bears; their actions are bound by a spiritual belief system. Under Japanese law, however, both hunters and Matagi need a licence.

“That the mountain gods are blessing us is the most important thing,” says Suzuki. “We share everything we catch among the clan. We weigh it and split the insides and intestines, because we think it is a gift from the divinities. And if we sell the bear fur it is the team’s money so we split it. The innards, the bones and the blood are used for medicine because the hospitals are really far.

“From November to New Year, we battle with bears. When they hibernate we hunt rabbits. When the snow melts in March and April, the bears wake up as the Japanese beech sprouts. The forests get too dense to hunt, so during summer we pick wild vegetables, then it goes into whitespotted char season so we go fishing.”

Masuda says he “didn’t want to work in a company and golf occasionally. That isn’t suited to me. We are in the mountains all season, with the blessings of the gods. I want to be in a pristine environment, with clean water and in nature, and if you think like that, there is truly nothing better than being a Matagi in Japan.”

Here, a bear hunt is similar to a hunt with dogs, except that it is humans flushing the bear to the top of the mountain, where gunmen await.

“When they run, they disappear, all the shadows look like bears,” says Masuda. “They understand that they are black and can hide. They are ninjas.”