Years ago, when I was working as a carpenter, my boss once told me, “Never make an important cut at the end of the day.” The idea, of course, is that one should think twice before doing anything with high consequence when tired or operating at less than 100%. I had never forgotten these sage words of wisdom. They floated through my mind this past winter as I stood atop Shiribetsu-dake, a 3,600-foot volcanic peak in Hokkaido, the northernmost island of Japan.
For the past five days, I’d been leading a group of American and Canadian skiers on what I call the “Japow Backcountry Ski Safari.” During that time, we had conspicuously avoided ski areas and lifts, preferring instead to earn our turns far from the madding crowds with special “alpine touring” bindings and removable “skins” that allowed us to walk uphill using our skis like snowshoes. We had already climbed and skied down Shiribetsu three times that day and barely crossed another track. But it was getting late, too late probably for what I was contemplating: a final run down a side of the mountain I had never skied before.

Photography by Mattias Fredriksson
To the north, Yotei-zan (6,227 feet), which bears an uncanny resemblance to Mount Fuji, rose from the snow-covered plains that surrounded us. Its upper slopes, where we had skied earlier in the week, were bathed in alpenglow, and a tiny plume of wind-blown snow billowed from its summit. I could feel the nip of that cold north wind on my nose. To the west, a dark bank of clouds was rolling over the town of Niseko where I hoped to soon be soaking in the mineral-rich waters of a local hot spring with a cold beer in hand. Considering the late hour and our fatigue, I knew my old boss would have told us to play it safe and ski down the way we had come up on the south side. But that slope was riddled with tracks; whereas here, on the shady north side of the peak, the snow was still virgin and untouched.
I looked at Karl, a professor from a university in New England. Fifty-something, he was the oldest in the group but also the best skier of the lot. “What do you think?” I asked him. Karl looked up from buckling his boots, his eyes barely visible through his amber goggle lens. Then he reached out with his ski pole and clinked it against mine. “Let’s do this,” he said. This was all I needed to hear. I signaled for him and the others to follow and without further discussion, I dropped into a forest of old-growth silver birch blanketed in waist-deep, untracked powder.
Like my clients, I had come to Japan in search of its famous powder skiing. I’d been hearing for years that Hokkaido was home to the best snow in the world. Its quality is so exceptional that it even has its own name: Japow (a combination of Japan and powder). And so, in 2017, I finally went to see what all the hype was about. Over the course of more than 25 years working as a certified mountain guide, my work had led me all over the world, from the Tetons to the Alps, from Patagonia to the Arctic to the Himalayas, but I had never found snow like that which greeted me in Hokkaido. Not even close.

Photography by Joel Bard
The key to Japow is a warm ocean current known as the Tsushima that runs northward up the Sea of Japan. Vapors rising from these warm waters are picked up by cold westerlies blowing in from Siberia, which forms dense storm clouds. When all of this pent-up moisture runs into Hokkaido’s mountains, it’s released in the form of snow. Exact numbers for snowfall totals are hard to come by, but I’ve driven up mountain roads where I had to crane my neck to even see the top of the snowbanks. In Niseko, a mega ski resort that has been called the “Aspen of Japan,” they routinely record 50 feet of snow in winter. Where Vail, Colorado, or Whistler, Canada, might get a storm once a week, in Hokkaido it snows most days, and it’s rare to wake up in the morning without the mountains having had a refresh overnight. What this means for a skier is that virtually every day is a Japow day. And for people like me who live for skiing untracked snow, Hokkaido is quite simply the promised land.
Of course, Japan is a long way from North America. From most cities in the U.S., it’s two days of flying and tickets tend to average about $1,500 to $2,000. Add in 14 hours of jet lag from, say, Minnesota, and it’s easy to question if it’s really worth all the expense and hassle to travel halfway around the world just to ski. And truth be told, if it was just about the snow, one trip might be enough to check that box and take those bragging rights for the next time Japow comes up in the lift line. But, of course, the “Land of the Rising Sun” has so much more to offer than just stellar dendrites.
A visit to Japan will always be about immersing oneself in a spirit of collectivism and respect for one’s elders. In Nippon, as the Japanese call their country, social cohesion is valued above all else. Coming from a deeply divided country like the United States, I was taken by Japan’s emphasis on aesthetics, orderliness and extreme courtesy — all while maintaining a strict adhesion to ancient customs. Visiting there makes you feel like you’ve traveled back in time to a bygone era that has long since been lost in the West.

Photography by Syuzo Tsushima
Perhaps nowhere are these traditions and aesthetics more fully on display than in the ancient Japanese onsen (hot springs) tradition, which dates back to the sixth century when Buddhism introduced communal bathing as a way to promote purification and healing. Historically, most Japanese homes did not have private baths. Instead, each town had a central public bathhouse called a sento where townspeople would gather to soak together in geothermal waters. Today, life still revolves around the sento (a man-made public bath made with mineral-rich heated tap water) and onsen (a natural hot spring used for communal bathing). Each day, on our way home from our ski tours, we would stop at a different bath, where we’d partake in this ancient tradition. Most public baths are segregated by sex, and clothing is not allowed. After showering at small wash stands, we would move from one hot spring pool to the next, both inside and outside, all varying temperatures, while alternating between cold plunges and a sauna. Guests frequently comment about how effective these healing soaks are at washing away lactic acid in sore muscles, almost akin to the results of a long sports massage. Costs are small, typically $4 to $8 per person.
After all this, you’re going to be hungry, which leads to the very best part about travel in Japan: the cuisine. Besides sushi, sashimi and more types of noodles than I knew existed — beyond ramen, there was udon (thick wheat noodles), soba (buckwheat noodles) and somen (thin wheat noodles usually served cold). A typical dining experience in a resort town like Niseko might include tonkatsu (breaded pork cutlet), onigiri (rice balls), or takoyaki (octopus balls). My personal favorite is shabu-shabu, which features cuts of thinly sliced meat and vegetables that you cook yourself over a bubbling, broth-filled hot pot right at your table. In Japanese, shabu-shabu means “swish-swish,” which is the sound the meat makes when you drop it into the bubbling pot. Washed down with a cold Sapporo or Asahi “Dry” beer, or even better, with a tokkuria (ceramic vessel) of cold sake, there is simply nothing better in this world after a long day of skiing. Between all the energy you’ll be burning on the hill and the Japanese concept of “hara hachi bu,” a philosophy centered on mindful eating — 80% of satiation is the target — you’re likely to go home a fitter, more healthy version of yourself.
But no, I wasn’t thinking about any of this as I swooped down through that forest on Shiribetsu. The trees were tight at first, but after a few hundred feet they opened up, and as I gazed downslope through a haze of flying powder, I noticed that the day’s last beams of sunshine had lit the slope aglow, its surface scintillating as if strewn with a million tiny diamonds. My thighs burned, but a little voice inside my head whispered don’t stop now! A quick glance over my shoulder showed Karl, closely followed by the others, lacing a perfect figure eight in my track.
And that’s how the day ended, with the four of us floating down through that magical forest like feathers dancing on the invisible hands of the wind, the only sounds the swish-swish of our skis through the untracked snow and the cries of pure joy, heard by no one but us, that echoed across the mountainside — as we reveled in the best skiing on Earth.