Japan’s ski slopes are world-famous for good reason. But there’s another way to explore the Japanese winter countryside… and that’s on snowshoes. Writer Lynn Gail takes a walking tour of an entirely different kind in Tohuko.
I’m focused on one thing: Staying upright. My shiny, one-size-fits-all, snap-on snowshoes are the size of a small skateboard, but I’m not feeling the cool-kid vibe. It’s more a prehistoric, dinosauric moonwalk as I attempt to move forward.
“Keep your legs parallel like you’re horse riding,” explains our guide, Tetsuo Sato. “Put your heel down first, then slide your feet through the snow.”
Silently repeating “heal, slide, heal, slide,” the snowshoe shuffle starts to click as I crunch my way through crisp virgin snow up Mt Iide, an almost 7,000-foot (2,105 meter) peak, in the Tohoku region of Japan’s Honshu Island.
Located in the northern Yamagata Prefecture, Tohoku used to be known as Japan’s ‘black-sheep’ region. Remote, rugged, and run by outlaws who resisted rule, the area was not accepted into the Japanese nation-state until the 12th century.
Polar winters from December to March further isolated the area, cutting it off from neighboring regions. Modern roads and bridges now make the area easy to reach by car from Yonezawa Station, a short Shinkansen (bullet train) ride from Japan’s capital city, Tokyo.
Standing knee-deep in snow it’s hard to imagine this silent wonderland was once home to a lawless, ‘wild west’ society. The valley stretches around us, a cape of soft crested peaks dusted in snowflakes. Rice paddies lay hidden under a duvet of thick snowfall, distant villages peak out from the winter, and, besides our group of seven snowshoers, there’s not a soul in sight.
Unlike skiing, anyone with a good base fitness can snowshoe with little training, as is proven by a sprightly 77-year-old gentleman on our tour who has no problems keeping up.
We hike past cedar trees with branches bending under snow, pause at a one-kilometer signpost certain we’ve hiked further, and continue to the summit where Tetsuo shovels out a snow bench and treats us to hot tea, coffee and okaki (dried plum).
“It’s much easier going down,” says Tetsuo with a wink. On the descent, he digs a ‘slide’ through a two-meter-high snowdrift. A slight push sees me flying down the snow-fantastic quietude—a middle-aged woman abandoning all restraint. At the bottom, we watch dusk flicker over fresh snow until it’s time to get acquainted with Japan’s oldest tradition—onsen bathing.
Keen to thaw out, I shuffle to the red curtain in slippers two sizes too big and drop my inhibitions at the door. There’s no privacy here. A line of shower heads hang on the wall like old dial-up telephone receivers. I clean myself from head-to-toe, as is the correct etiquette, before heading to the outside onsen.
It takes a studied level of Zen mindfulness to walk, totally naked, through icy snow and I skid and stumble en route. Making it to the bath, I sink blissfully into steaming water. It’s just me. Moonlight illuminates sleet falling across my face as I bathe in the hot mineral water, full of sulphate, sodium, potassium and magnesium, known to soothe the body and slow the mind.
With a prayer to the weather gods, we board the first of two ropeway cable-cars meant to get us to the top of the 5,700-foot (1,736 meter) peak. But the wind is too strong for the second car to operate. So from the 2,800-foot mark, it’s snowshoe time.
“First, we attach kanjiki—traditional snowshoes,” says Sato, a spry albeit weathered 74-year-old mountain guide. Originally used for hunting during bitter winters, kanjiki are made of wood twisted into a ring, with thick rope that attaches to the boot. “Emergency rescue teams still use them to move quicker in deep snow,” he says, as if to convince us of their functionality. “They’ll stop you from sinking!”
It is said that each step gives you the opportunity to let go of what you don’t need. As I climb the winding path, I let myself brush away unwanted baggage. I tip my hat to Mother Nature for brushing the world white. It’s silent as I focus on the icy stairway, but far too cold to hear cicadas.
At the top I make an offering. I pray Tohoku’s untouched region retains its last-frontier charm, that its vast wilderness remains protected, and that, as tonight’s steaming onsen beckons, the source of the nation’s most pampering pastime keeps bubbling away, naturally heated by the heart of Japan.
The writer was a guest of Walk Japan’s Tohoku Hot Spring Snow Tour
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