It’s 10am, and spears of golden sunlight are piercing the clouds draped over the forested peaks of the Alishan range in southwestern Taiwan. My mode of transport is a steam train, and in many ways, little has changed since it first rumbled through these alpine forests in 1912.
Beyond my window, thick clusters of hinoki – otherwise known as Japanese cypress – line the route like a guard of honour, their gnarled, ramrod-straight trunks vying for space with bamboo, prized by the Indigenous Tsou tribe and used for everything from construction to crafts.
For better or worse, this is a region shaped by the Japanese who arrived here after the first Sino-Japanese War in 1895. Forestry experts dispatched to the region around the turn of the century confirmed the presence of a huge number of conifers.
In 1906, the Japanese company Fujita Group set about building a railway, desperate to nurture a forestry industry built on the vast swathes of cedar and cypress blanketing these mountains.
But doing so wasn’t easy. Construction was abandoned in 1908, prompting the Taiwanese government to take over the project, and in 1912, the first steam locomotives took to the tracks.
Rumbling along recently restored tracks
Today, as I rumble through the forests of Alishan National Scenic Area along the recently restored 71-kilometre railway (full operations resumed in 2024), it’s not hard to see why the Japanese admitted defeat. The route includes countless switchbacks, 77 bridges and 50 tunnels – one of which has recently been painted with images of supersized sunflowers.
US-built Shay locomotives were imported to help shift the heavy loads – tonnes of timber destined for Taiwan’s ports – but other obstacles were harder to overcome. Typhoons, earthquakes and landslides regularly wreaked havoc on this particular region, and the process of constructing the original railway was a feat of engineering which required a huge amount of manpower.
Many of these workers lived in Chiayi, a small city shaped by the timber industry. It’s the starting point for the heritage railway, and today, one of its biggest attractions is Hinoki Village, a cluster of squat wooden cottages built as accommodation for railway and forestry workers. These cottages now house souvenir shops selling cedarwood chopping boards and oolong tea grown nearby.
Sadly, the railway ground to a halt in the 1960s as the forestry industry declined. Occasional services still ran, but in 2009, Typhoon Morakot hammered the final nail in the coffin, prompting the closure of a railway line already in desperate need of some serious TLC.
The railway is a ‘living history of Taiwan’
The workers who brought this railway back to life in 2024 might not live in Hinoki Village, but their passion runs just as deep as its previous tenants.
Everyone involved with its restoration, whether it’s the stationmasters based at some of the route’s most isolated stations or engineers who laid certain sections of rail by hand in remote, inaccessible locations, has the same perspective. This wasn’t simply about replacing a few sleepers.
“The Alishan Forest Railway isn’t just a railway,” says Mr. Shen Yi-Ching, chief of the Safety Management Division. “It’s a living history of Taiwan. It started with the harvesting of our precious forests during the Japanese colonial era. The railway was built to transport that timber, and around it grew communities, industries and a unique culture.”
And it’s a culture which the railway honours in numerous ways. Certain carriages are clad with fragrant cedarwood, and many of the stations along the route resemble forest temples.
As we pull in, I watch the conductor lean out the window and pass a large token, attached to a loop of rope, to the stationmaster. Before the train departs, another token is passed back to the conductor. It’s a ritual which has existed since the railway’s heyday, and one which proves that the train had the right to traverse the previous section of track, and has permission to proceed to the next one.
Tourists have replaced cargo
Train stations such as Jiaoliping, which huddles in the shadow of both cedar-carpeted mountains and a trackside, lantern-adorned temple, are spotlessly clean.
All too often, railways in Europe become dumping grounds for discarded bottles, cans and other detritus. But here, any scraps of litter are quickly removed by members of the local communities, who see the railway as a lifeline, and regularly gather to conduct organised litter-picking sessions.
The trains chugging along this railway didn’t just carry lumber – they carried supplies and post, and connected locals with the outside world. Today, the cargo is tourists – an equally valuable commodity. Many of the stations double as departure points for hikers keen to explore the trails which weave through Alishan’s firefly-dotted mountains.
The lumberjacks and train drivers who would pause at these stations to rest and refuel have now been replaced by tourists who queue at food stalls to feast on the bento boxes which once sustained those who toiled on its tracks. I recommend a serving of turkey rice (a speciality in this part of Taiwan), followed by a cup of oolong mountain tea (gāoshān chá).
Relics from the railway’s heyday are never far away. There are rusting water guns once used by track gangs to extinguish fires caused by sparks from the train. Ruan Wen-An, who lives next to the railway’s tiny Dulishan railway station, will happily show passengers the one once owned by his grandfather.
Ancient tools are on display at Fenqihu Station. Here, a cathedral-like wooden loco shed has been transformed into an exhibition space where visitors can learn about the railway’s history.
Sunrise over Taiwan’s tallest peak
For many people, the final destination is Alishan Station, 71.4 kilometres from Chiayi. But the short, sweet Zhushan Line, an extension which opened in 1984, is now part of the railway’s story, too. It is the only section of the Alishan Forest Railway to be built after WWII.
The day after arriving at Alishan Station, I return to board the so-called sunrise train for the 30-minute journey to Zhushan Station. At 2,451 metres above sea level, it’s Taiwan’s highest train station. In 2023, it emerged from a major renovation, with a sweeping roof resembling two lengths of ribbon, and architectural elements inspired by the clouds which regularly cloak the surrounding peaks.
Nature has shaped its design in more tangible ways, too; near the entrance, a towering red cedar grows through a bespoke hole in the roof. It is a Taiwanese take on the mid-century modern buildings I’ve seen in Palm Springs, many of which have circular holes added to accommodate palm trees. Nature shapes departure times, too. They depend on what time the sun rises that day, displayed on platform sign boards which are manually changed.
A train worker tells me that despite this particular journey lasting just 30 minutes, it generates a similar revenue to that of the restored Alishan Forest Railway. The reason? Every morning, tourists clamour to board the train in time to watch the sun rise over the distant mountains from an observation point close to Zhushan station. Taiwan’s tallest peak, Jade Mountain, is one of the many natural wonders on show.
The Alishan Forest Railway is a railway which has truly stood the test of time, and it’s fitting that much of its restoration was carried out not with machinery but by hand. It’s a labour of love, and one which passed a recent, unexpected test with flying colours.
Just a few days after its opening in July 2024, Typhoon Gaemi swept over Taiwan, and landslides meant the railway was forced to close so that tracks could be cleared. But unlike the typhoon, which sealed its fate in 2009, the railway emerged largely unscathed, opening a month later – proof that this cedar-scented success story is here to stay.