The Ski Journal • Volume 15, Issue 2 • HOKKAIDO'S FORGOTTEN WINTER

Hokkaido winter isn’t all powder dreams and face shots. Yosuke Nagahama making the most of a wind-scoured ridgeline.
Photo: Takahiro Nakanishi

I never thought that a Japanese winter could be all ours. Gathered around a bonfire the night before my wedding, the idea seemed far-fetched, at best.

I had been based in Japan for a few years, ski guiding in the bountiful mountains of Hokkaido, far from my home mountains in New Zealand. Yukka had been an integral part of that journey, my dream girl who was about to become my wife. About 50 friends and family had flown in for our spring wedding, a massive showing considering the worldwide pandemic-induced travel restrictions.

Our ceremony would take place at a local shrine, and I’d even signed on to say my vows in Japanese. It was all a little nerve-wracking, but the traditional sake would take some of the edge off. After our ceremony, we would change into vibrant kimonos and be introduced in front of a big hall filled with familiar faces.

It was easy to be hopeful. We were beginning something big and our lives would never be the same.

In April 2020, COVID-19 hit Japan, prompting the declaration of a national emergency. It wouldn’t take long for our post-wedding bliss, and the country we called home, to unravel. Varying levels of lockdown scared locals and crippled the economy.

As a foreign national, I could escape back to New Zealand, but I had work through the summer as an exploration geologist seeking gold-bearing quartz veins and abandoned mines in territory that hadn’t been explored in almost a century.

It wasn’t just gold that kept me pinned to Japanese shores. With COVID-19 case counts on the rise and borders closing worldwide, whispers of a locals-only winter gained volume and frequency. For the few skiers that stayed and stuck it out, Japanese winter could be a private affair.

With a slow 2019-20 season in the rearview, the idea of a redemptive winter was enough to cause a buzz in the mountain guide world. That came to a crashing halt in December 2020, when the Japanese government closed the borders to 150 countries, including our main client bases in the United Kingdom, Australia and the United States. I was glad I didn’t have any employees to worry about, but life suddenly felt like a dead end. Even Japanese clients were pulling the plug, leaving the local guiding community in the lurch.

Winter shapes life on Hokkaido. Everything from park benches to telephone booths are designed to withstand multiple feet of snow. Clearing that snow is a part of the culture here. In the cold months, you are busy shoveling snow and, if you’re lucky, skiing. During the summer, well, you are preparing for the coming winter.

This winter, there was less shoveling. Hotels remained buried under snow because they were often completely empty. Hokkaido’s fragile mountain economy had crumbled. Honestly, I wasn’t faring much better. At times it was hard to get out of bed. I felt like a train wreck, like all I could do was disappear.

The mountains were the perfect place to escape the news. There, the biggest variable determining my success was my own skill and determination. As snow began to fall, for the first time in months I felt like I was in control.

More than ever, the central Hokkaido high country seemed like home. Without foreign seasonal guides and international visitors, the iconic snowfalls of early Japanese winter were all ours. And without any guide work, I discovered the sweetest silver lining: For the first time in years, I could ski with friends.

In December, the snow at Furano, my home hill, was deep and dry, the slopes impossibly empty. We didn’t rush for first chair, savoring our time at home, knowing we’d see the same handful of skiers later on and a complete refresh inbounds. Standard lines remained fresh. There was no need to text or even call anyone—I could identify who was at the hill simply by checking out their tracks.

It felt like we’d wandered into a secret, disappearing into winter in a way I never thought possible. There was no pressure to do anything, go anywhere, or answer to anyone, our surplus of time was a prize divvied up among the friends who had stayed in the mountains rather than seeking more prosperous shores. I may have been cash poor, but my humble lifestyle paid off in an abundance of turns.

In the cold months you are busy shoveling snow and, if you’re lucky, skiing. During summer, well, you are preparing for the coming winter.

In the Furano area, we received over 275 inches of snow from December through March, a little below average, but more than enough to satiate the few people reaping Hokkaido’s winter bounty. Still, the human psyche has limits, even when faced with a full winter of Groundhog Day powder. During normal winters, I’d found my mental balance pursuing backcountry missions. Being untethered from the next objective was unnerving.

As the powder dream of early winter compacted under spring sunshine, I needed to chase something substantial to get my feet (and mind) back on solid ground.

For years, one line had completely captured my imagination. Deeply incised, unknown and out of view to all except summertime alpine climbers, it was an X-shaped couloir only visible from the summit of Ashibetsu-dake—one of the most prominent peaks in the Yubari Mountains. Cutting down from Meotoiwa, the line would be a fitting cap on an unusual winter.

It was a clear day in early April. Along with my friend Ayako Kuroda, I was up before sunrise, following the upper gorge to the gnarled foot of Meotoiwa. We were at least an hour too early for ideal skiing conditions, but right on time to watch the walls above transition to brilliant orange and red. The snow had mostly melted in the valleys below. Early agricultural activity in the valley had increased the dust in the local atmosphere as well, producing wild morning colors.

Without foreign seasonal guides and international visitors, the iconic snowfalls of early Japanese winter were all ours.

The beauty of a sunrise reminds us why we bother getting up early, but this one hit a little different. During the pandemic, it had become too easy to make excuses to slow down, but this moment made me feel like I was still on the right track, wherever it might be headed.

After a few hours spent climbing with crampons up the icy narrows of the couloir, we reached our turnaround point. Looking back as sunlight bathed the valley below, I took my time admiring the views of Ashibetsu-dake’s north face and its gallery of couloirs and steep alpine routes. Our couloir skied harder than we would have liked, but for the first time in a long time, I didn’t care about conditions. We’d had the best snow in the world to ourselves all winter, but I was happy to be in consequential big terrain again.

Our path out through the winding gorge required knee-deep river-wading at several points. Finally out of the drainage, we laughed, skiing the remnants of a three-foot-wide bank lining the edge of the road—the only snow left on one of the best, strangest seasons of my life.

A family camping nearby gave me a confused glance as I poured water out of my boots. Wringing out my socks, I laid on the grass and embraced my impending sunburn. I didn’t care. I’d reconnected with peace in the mountains, a sensation I hoped would last me for years to come.

The Ski Journal - Volume 15, Issue 2

HOKKAIDO'S FORGOTTEN WINTER

I never thought that a Japanese winter could be all ours. Gathered around a bonfire the night before my wedding, the idea seemed far-fetched, at best.

In the cold months you are busy shoveling snow and, if you’re lucky, skiing. During summer, well, you are preparing for the coming winter.

Without foreign seasonal guides and international visitors, the iconic snowfalls of early Japanese winter were all ours.

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