When I planned my March trip to Japan, hanami—the fleeting cherry blossom viewing season—was foremost in my mind. As carefully as I chose my dates, I knew I stood a good chance of missing the peak of the bloom, wherever I went on my travels. Though some types of cherry trees bloom earlier or later than the most common Somei Yoshino variety, generally the cycle lasts only two weeks.
Forecasting the beginning, peak and end of the sakura bloom is both a science and a business, since the country’s spring tourism depends on it. Japan used to have one of the most predictable climates in the world, with seasons of almost equal length and temperatures that varied little from year to year. The weather was so stable that it routinely rained on my birthday, a certainty I enjoyed as a child. (The one year it didn’t came as a surprise and, I assumed, an aberration.) But that was before climate change took hold. By the early 2000s, Japan’s springs and falls were shorter, winters were colder and summers were hotter and far longer. Consequently, Hanami forecasting became much less accurate. My past two spring visits, ten years apart, deviated significantly from the expected dates.
In 2013 I arrived in Tokyo at what was supposed to be peak bloom, only to find hanami at its end. In February there had been a cold snap and heavy snow, followed by a March hot spell that made the trees bloom a week early. By the time I got down to the Meguro River, a once dank waterway transformed into a hanami hotspot, the trees were past their prime but still beautiful. It was raining, and as I walked along the riverside park the wet blossoms fell like snow. Pink petals covered the walkways, floated in puddles and massed against the curbs. The scene was lovely and unpeopled, since the crowds had stayed away .
Next I went to Kyoto, where all that remained of the bloom were depressing pink nubs on the trees. Only the Chinese tourists, out in force with their tripods and selfie sticks, seemed enthusiastic about them.
I resigned myself to having missed the season entirely only to find that my next stop, Inuyama, was at peak bloom. One rainy day I found perfectly flowering cherry trees at Meiji Mura, an architectural park dedicated to relocated Meiji Period (1868-1912) buildings from across Japan. The lakeside grounds were planted with cherry trees, as well as plums, dogwoods and pines. In the rain the park’s gardeners were hard at work, pruning and tidying them.
This year I arrived in Japan well before the forecast start of the bloom but with modest expectations, given my experience a decade ago. My worst fears were realized when the sakura in Ueno Park—Tokyo’s bell weather location, with more than 1,000 cherry trees—began to bloom on March 15th, the earliest starting date since 1953. This pushed the peak day—March 27th—forward by more than a week, shocking everyone, including the forecasters. The next day I went to Ueno Park and found a few trees in full bloom. Like pop stars they were mobbed by visitors, since most of the others along the avenue of cherry trees were just starting to bloom. Because I was leaving for a twelve-day trip around Honshu on the 18th, I resigned myself to missing Tokyo’s peak. Fortunately, I would have other chances.