The sight of the snow brings me sadness. As I strap into my snowshoes and walk up the closed mountain road, my eyes catch bushels of sasa, an evergreen bamboo, piercing the windswept crust.
Hokkaido sits high among the pantheon of Earth’s wintery paradises, but warming in the region brings volatility to the island’s powdery saga. High atop Mount Mokoto, above the crystal blue of Lake Kussharo, flecks of green tinted yellow among white tell the story of the world-changing.
“I am glad I will not be young in a future without wilderness,” American writer and philosopher, Aldo Leopold, once wrote. Today, I fear seeing a Hokkaido where sasa grows deep into January.
My companions and I trudge slowly on the sides of a closed winter road toward the trailhead. We follow along the tracks of previous hikers relying on their wisdom, perhaps blindly, to find our way as winds kick up swirls of frost. Today’s hike is not long, three hours roundtrip, nor is it steep, only rising a meager 300 meters into the cloudy skies.
Despite this, the trek is mythic, following along an ancient scar where a mountain similar in size to Mount Fuji once stood. 30,000 years ago primordial wars beneath the earth raged and reclaimed that rising mountain back into its depths. Man was young then, without common cause, searching for its station across that cataclysmic landscape. Nowadays, they walk among the sasa, eager to protect this land from themselves.
We rise on the snow, climbing higher into the sky, pushing poles into the hardpack for stability as we duck below icebound trees. The clouds obscure the vision of the lake, but at our backs, if only for a moment, we are permitted to witness the Shiretoko peninsula stretch out next to the calm blue sea.
After some effort, we arrive at heights. On our left, the cliff drops into grey nothingness. Our right is flanked by trees frozen and covered in snow. To our head, obscured in clouds, a stranger walks towards us. The wind blows hard but the echo of a bell rings softly.
The stranger approaches. I recognize him as a friend; he greets us eagerly and in English, informing us that we are getting close to the summit. “Past the grey rocks, climb the rope, then 15 more minutes.” Smiling frozen faces give final goodbyes and we continue.
At last, we arrive at the rocks, a jagged outcropping dividing the rim of the trail. A reminder of the violence of the earth, silent across the ages. A short technical section sees us climb through this disfigurement. The trail then slopes again, remains straight for some distance, then rises again with the summit hidden somewhere in the void.
Fat Bike Tour on the Okhotsk Sea
Jewels of ice cover the beaches of Tokoro, pushed high onto the shores by the foamy waves of the Okhotsk. They glint and shimmer under the rays of winter sun, diamonds amidst driftwood and long-forgotten scraps of fishing gear, long forgotten. Waves bring more of these with each wallop against concrete tetrapods. A precursor to the infamous drift ice which in a short time will cover the seas in a blanket of white.
The drift ice, a product of fresh water spilling into the sea in the far north, marches in slowly subject to winds and waves. Today, the seas are clear, and the drift ice’s arrival is delayed by stubborn heat and angry swells.
Our group arrives disappointed to see naked seas but excited to partake in one of Kitami City’s newest winter offerings. Riding bikes is commonplace in Japan, however, in Hokkaido, this daily activity proves impossible for most of the year. Countering this, local faces are investing in so-called “fat bikes” equipped with tough tires perfect for treading through Hokkaido powder.
We take off down the coast, each pedal brings the bike to speed. No easy task, however, with the wet sand serving as a perfect trap, momentum is a must. The waves creep up and splash the bottoms of my tires, fingers of sea foam linger reminding me of the mighty sea to my right.
After some time, we pause on the beach, leaving our bikes some distance from the swells. The wind faint and whispering, birds fly high above us, laughing as they rest on its power.
We break bread, or in this case, bits of chocolate and coffee, necessary sustenance after a few hundred meters of leg-shredding pedaling. The dragon ice, as it’s known, is abundant, taking on extraterrestrial shapes as it melts and refreezes.
Soon, the landscape will transform, the waves will silence under the muting weight of more ice. Birds will multiply, fearsome eagles will stand sentry waiting for those below their knightly pecking order to replenish them in preparation for return to lands far north.
This marks the latest arrival of the ice in recent memory, a clear sign of warming for this vital sea. How long this treasure will last is unknown, perhaps it will fade away as slowly as it crawls across the sea, or disappear with this same magic as it presents itself. I can only enjoy this moment.
Kitami’s Frozen Barbeque Festival and Snowball Fight Tournament
The air is cold and bites my face as I walk into the fairgrounds. Tonight, despite the temperature, hundreds are gathered near the station with cheer. For the past 26 years, people have collected, huddling together with hand warmers in abundance around small stone grills, to enjoy the two things Kitami is most recognized by: good meat and the bitter cold.
Known as the genkan yakiniku matsuri, or Extreme Cold Yakiniku Festival. This unquestionably local event doesn’t tap into the deep well of the history of Japan, bringing forth overused and antiquated themes to draw attention. A bit frozen tongue in an equally cold cheek, the only thing that matters tonight is to enjoy good food in tandem with good company.
“Everyone, do your best to stick it out until the end.” The MC of the event says, his breath frosty in the wind, he lifts his ungloved hand, with a beer in tow, high into the air shouting kanpai (cheers) with all joining in. Some revelers take the festive apparel to the next level, donning green fluffy hats and waving flags, they roar back a hearty kanpai.
The whirl of leafblowers echoes behind everyone’s cheers, sparks fly in the air disappearing into the black night as dutiful charcoal burners toil to keep the small stone stoves placed between benches lit and bellies full.
Today’s festival marks the first day of three for the Kitami Winter Festival. Tomorrow’s highlights include an ice bar, campfire and toasted marshmallows, and most notably a snowball fight tournament.
A mix between dodgeball and capture the flag, two teams line up to take out their opponent or their team’s flag. Walls of snow are erected, and teams take shelter behind these barriers, wary of snowballs lofted high and arced onto their heads.
Chief above all, is how to get the snowballs from their storage in the back to the most advanced throwers. Shuttling the fine clumps of snow is no easy feat, yet like ants, each team tosses them up their line and leaves them at the feet of their comrades.
Shouts of warning ring out as tricky opponents send shots high. Cheers from the crowd follow each bark from the referee as they call out a struck player. Cold wind swirls the powder into the faces of the fighters, foggy and wet, they wipe away the snow lest they be struck. Children play along the side of the field, their parents taking part in this pastime.
Today, the snow falls in abundance, covering the ground as it’s tossed and kicked up. Laughter can be heard, groans from the defeated, cheers from vendors wishing to sell warm drinks to those shaking off their hangover from last night. The feeling of normalcy takes over me, and I think back to the sasa on the mountain, likely buried in today’s storm. This is what life in Hokkaido should look like.
