The hum of an engine and swirl of water followed by ice breaking surprises the morning silence. The fisherman clad in purple, stands in a white boat full of harvested scallops. He revs the engine churning the brackish port water. The boat rises onto the ice which now covers Lake Saroma and, for a moment, it glides on its surface before it breaks into slabs and disappears under the waves. He reverses, a meter or so, and fires the engine again breaking the slab. Finally positioned, he cuts the engine and lumbers portside.
The Solitude of Morning
The morning is quiet again but only for a moment, he fiddles with a large metal wire where nets dangle. The fisherman struggles for a sheet of ice the size and girth of a fridge door. Unaware of my presence atop the bridge, he curses in an abstract fisherman’s brogue in battle with the heavy ice.
A curious eagle circles above, large and kingly, its brown head revolves mechanically scanning for prey. Soon it loses interest and flies towards open waters. I walk down the bridge and get back in my car in pursuit.
After a few minutes, I pull off to the side of the road and wade through dead but still prickly vines to the water’s edge. The bird, in the presence of others, fully aware of my presence, leers at me. Known as a Stellar’s Sea Eagle, this magnificent bird only vacations here in Hokkaido during its winter. Following the drift ice from the northern Okhotsk Sea, the eagles rule the winter skies, striking fear both above and below the frozen alien world.
I stand on the edge of the water, and the eagle calls to me. Its shrill voice is backed with a bass demanding I go no further. It flaps its wings, wider than I am tall, and takes flight disappearing into the blue sky.
Mount Meakan rises above frozen primeval green forests snowcapped white and bright against virgin skies.
Snow in the Afternoon
My stomach churns as I take my first few steps onto Lake Onetto, the crunch of snow gives way revealing a glassy pocked surface. From the depths, ancient moss-covered trees reach up, eldritch and bone-like plotting my capture. A thick crack shows the true thickness of ice holding me up from a certain demise. Under a mid-afternoon sun, the ice cracks and warps, each shift an alien blaster firing from the unknown.
Across the lake, other adventurers shuffle slowly across the snow. A few thrillseekers with skates in tow fly across the ice in earnest. Carving long tracks in the thin ice, slush flies into the air, shimmering as floats airy back to the surface.
As I continue walking atop the glass, orbs of air, trapped in the sudden freeze wait for release just under the surface. Shiny against the winter light, warped, and glossy, ranging in size from mere specks to dinner bowls. Each shape is unique, fingerprints of a god long forgotten, refracting light into the murky green depths of Lake Onetto. Dotting the lake, spots of freshly swept snow reveal these hidden treasures, a photographer’s bounty soon to be buried beneath the snow, lost until spring.
Located just outside of Kitami City, owned in part by the city itself, Wakamatsu Ski Area lacks the deep snow that canonizes Niseko as a holy place for powder-hound pilgrims. Wakamatsu offsets the lack of extravagance by embracing meekness in a sport so often pay-walled and out of reach.
Evening Sustenance
The full moon rises high into the starless sky. Burnt orange light blankets the groomed course in amber hues. The air is still, filled with the sound of distorted pop-rock on old speakers, and the mechanical groans of a ski lifting me into darkness.
As I wait, I look down the slope and watch my friends teach themselves to ski, they slowly cross the piste and turn, “pizza, french fry, pizza, french fry,” I whisper to myself proud of their efforts in trying something new. They stop, as a child, more than ten years old flies past them straightlining down the slope without fear. From afar, I laugh with them, knowing their reaction to being cooked
Kitami’s ski culture starts early, small slopes are often made at schools for students to practice in P.E. class. Parents encourage their kids to start young, towing them around places like Wakamatsu.
There’s no party at Wakamatsu, it does not necessitate one. Wakamatsu reminds us of what makes skiing great and doesn’t hoard that prize behind lavish ski passes and over-priced ramen. A slope, simple but clean, absent of any lines, and perfect to make long-lasting memories.
Snow falls hard on the streets of Kitami on a quiet evening. The fresh snow packs onto the roads, yet to be disturbed. Between the falling snowflakes, white fields stretch out into the night. The familiar glow of Wakamatsu burns behind the hills. All is quiet as the light turns green. After a few minutes, we turn off the main road and arrive at an unassuming two-story building white as the snow that falls.
Emblazoned on the side in deep red letters, yakinikuya, meaning yakiniku store, in Japanese. Yakiniku is a barbeque style that is common across Japan. Guests cook raw meat on a small grill at the center of their table.
Kitami is home to the largest density of yakiniku stores per capita on the wide island of Hokkaido. Travelers and residents have gathered on nights like these, seeking warmth from the community and a sizzling hot grill for over fifty years.
As we leave the restaurant, all is silent sans the patter of heavy snowflakes falling on metal roofs and the clawing of shovels in snow on concrete out in the dark. My engine coughs as I turn the key, coming to life and we drive away. In no time at all, the sun will rise into clear skies, with it a new day, bathing fresh snow in orange light just as it was before time.
All photography by Justin Randall
