A winter in Hokkaido
The first thing I see from Hokkaido are its shores: snow-covered beaches, eaten away by the glacial Pacific ocean. We fly over dykes destined to protect the island’s southern coast, and past ice-covered prairies bathed in the golden afternoon sun. Clara sits by me, surrounded by close friends who are here too. I savor the moment, progressively overwhelmed by a feeling of gratitude, for we will soon discover a special place together. Eventually, we land in Sapporo.
Driving alongside a gigantic lake, the sky alternates between patches of blue and darker clouds, heavy snowfall in the distance. On the side of the road, families of deers occasionally greet us on our way. Reaching Niseko feels like piercing through the bubble of white emptiness we’ve been immersed in for the past hours. On the foothills of Mt Yotei, which we can only imagine for now, the town mushrooms out of the fog. We have arrived. A thin layer of powder is covering the mountain. During winter, the ice-cold winds blowing from the Siberian tundra meet the moist and warm air above the sea of Japan. A perfect uniting, in one of the world’s remote corners. The image sticks.
A new day. This morning, we are lined up, skis on our backs, walking one after the other along the narrow ridge to the summit of Mt Annupuri. The wind from the West blowing into our backs is helping us move along. Tanaka leaps forward and leads our group into the North face. An otherworldly experience begins as we reach the tree line. Each one of us, opening a trace amid the white birch trees. The wind has died down, in the silence I only hear the gentle screeching of our skis on the white powder and the cries of laughter from friends left and right. In the canyon below, the sun is piercing through the clouds. We pause to regroup. In the distance, a line of military men in full gear is making its way up for a training exercise in the backcountry. It seems being part of the self-defense forces also has its perks.
Another day. As the night gently falls on Hirafu, the weather has turned into a full-on blizzard, snowfall covering our traces. Amid the trees’ shadows, we enter a colder and quieter world. Time frozen in place. In the dark, the universe of our senses narrows down to physical sensations. We learn to progressively let go of sight to rely on our intuitions, and ski through the black forest long past sunset.
The most memorable moments of our time in the North: the evenings in the village’s warm izakayas where, sheltered from the elements, our group invariably gathers around a table to dissect and relive the events of the day. I cherish these moments of friendship as we continue to laugh into the night.
All photographies from David Benzaken
