Lake Kussharo is the largest caldera lake in Japan and the largest in the world.
Photo via Tatsuo Nakamura/Shutterstock
Winter canoeing. Sounds absurd, right? Two words together, like sardine ice cream, that don’t make sense. And yet, here I am, sitting in the bow of a double canoe 5,000 miles from home, cruising a half-frozen lake in the dead of winter. The shore and the swans plunge in a bloodless leap across the misty expanse, the figure-8s fading in their wake. Honestly, it’s not so bloodless outside: the sun is shining and the sky is a plasticine blue. My gloves are tucked into my coat pocket and my hat is back in the van. It’s not the general weather for February in Hokkaido, Japan – thanks, global warming – but it’s beautiful.
Hokkaido is Japan’s northernmost island and the largest and wildest of its 47 prefectures. I’ve been here before, but that was years ago and I usually hung out in Sapporo, a city known for its beer, seafood, and proximity to must-see spots. Surrounded by 3 seas and blessed with pristine forests, cobalt lakes, and snow-capped mountains, Hokkaido feels millions of miles away from the crowds and billboards causing crises in Tokyo. Nowadays it would hardly be noticeable: it is not uncommon to drive for an hour and never cross paths with any other car.
There are 3 national parks in eastern Hokkaido, and Lake Kussharo in Akan-Mashu National Park is where my winter adventure begins. Kussharo is the largest caldera lake in Japan and the second largest in the world. In summer, its waters are populated with trout and carp, and are popular with fishermen, sailors and windsurfers. In winter, Satoshi Yoshida, co-founder of Kussharo Eco Tours, and other intrepid enthusiasts share their love of nature.
Originally from Hiroshima but drawn north through Hokkaido’s crystal clear lakes and mountains, Yoshida spent 15 years exploring this remote corner of Japan. After putting on wellies, we paddled as deep as we could into the lake before stumbling upon a layer of shimmering ice. From there, Yoshida steers the bow of our canoe toward the serene Kushiro-gawa, the river that connects the lake. It meanders for 62 miles before emptying into the Pacific Ocean, but the longest runs Yoshida drives are just over 4 miles. The captains of today’s excursion are sibling puppies Aki and Yuki, a pair of border collies mixed with an unearthly calm, dressed in heart-print pajamas.
With Yoshida’s X-ray eyes pointed at the banks of the river, we catch a glimpse of a white-tailed eagle perched like a monolith in the treetops. Plus: green, hairy moss covering gnarled trunks, wasabi leaves that develop wild, and a naturally felled Manchurian. ash that, according to Yoshida, would be the best for making baseball bats. I’m relieved to hear that Hokkaido’s menacing Ussuri grizzly bears are still hibernating, but Yoshida takes a chance; Wear a bear spray on your hip. However, the real white whale for nature lovers is the elusive Blakiston’s owl, the largest owl species in the world and local to those areas. At one point, we hear the owl hoo-hoo-hooh in the canopy, but it never shows its face.
During the winter, canoeing is comfortable — a “gentle adventure,” as Yoshida calls it. Instead of sitting on a wooden bench, we sat on comfortable folding chairs (the kind you take to lawn concerts). It seems useful, but everyone knows that Yoshida does all the work: guiding the boat and jumping into his overshoes to push it every time the water goes down. Visitors never break a sweat, but we gather like hungry prisoners of war around a portable Chabudai-style table. that Yoshida places on a rocky spit at snack time. On the menu: almond cupcakes his wife baked this morning and a thermos filled with hot chocolate paired with creamy Hokkaido milk. (The prefecture is known for its dairy cows. )
Although we’ve only been in the water for about an hour, it seems like an eternity as we move at such a frigid pace. It’s smart to observe our surroundings, Yoshida says, and that’s precisely why other people come east. Hokkaido: Slow Down and. . . anything that I rarely take the time to do in my hectic daily existence, but that I fully accept under the sun.
The icy tendrils of Lake Mashu in winter
Photo via Tatsuo Nakamura/Shutterstock
This slowed-down technique – to nature, to life – is also what motivates Shinobu Katase, a landscape photographer who has been organizing snowshoe tours near Lake Mashu for a decade. to the east in Akan-Mashu Park, it is one of the clearest in the world. The volcanic rocks act as a grass filtration system, but what really helps keep the lake intact is the fact that humans (and their many motorized toys) are forbidden to walk, in or even near water.
This explains why we walk like Clydesdales around the edge of the caldera on snowshoes, slender white birches forming a grassy border between us, and a dangerous, steep slide into the blue beyond. Katase emits rabbit tracks and sasa plants that develop through the snow, which is about 30 to 50 centimeters shorter than it is for this time of year. Also a drop of earth in the middle of the lake, what the Ainu, the original population of Hokkaido, nicknamed “the island of the gods”. We take a break to enjoy a hot lemonade with syrup that Katase has extracted from her maple trees at home, we are invited to an observation contest with wild deer (we won).
Respect for nature is a recurring theme on my trip. For the Ainu people, who have inhabited the island since the 12th or 13th century, it’s a way of life, says Kengo Takiguchi, Anytime, Ainutime’s indigenous excursion advisor. Takiguchi is the youngest consultant in his network, and he’s not exaggerating when he says that the language and culture of this traditionally marginalized organization are in danger. Only recently has the Japanese government identified the Ainu as indigenous; Takiguchi hopes for a resurgence of pride, but old behaviors are hard to eradicate and some Ainu still hide their true heritage to better assimilate into Japanese society. Their goal: to maintain and celebrate the language, cuisine, religious beliefs, wood carving and embroidery. and musical traditions distinct from the Ainu. He even gives a demonstration of the mukkuri, a harp with a vibrating mouth, and invites me to do the same (for a squeaky effect).
Although Takiguchi’s tour begins the next day in the city, about an hour’s drive from Lake Kussharo, he temporarily heads into the snowy forests, identifying other plants and their uses along the way: willows for carving animistic spirits, nettle fibers for making fishing lines. and medicinal berries to treat abdominal pains. The Ainu, he explains, say that everything on this earth – the trees, the rivers, the lakes – are blessings from the afterlife, and respect for nature is paramount in their practices and beliefs.
Water also plays a huge role in the way I enjoy eastern Hokkaido. I see it in the sulfuric saliva of the rugged Mount Iōzan, a hot, bubbling volcano where chartreuse-colored fumaroles smoke and belch like a Cheech set.
As evening falls, I can’t wait to take a dip in the open-air onsen at Oyado Kinkiyu Bettei Suikazura, an old hotel with separate bathing areas for men and women. The water comes directly from Iōzan and is so acidic that it corrodes jewelry; Locals, however, swear that it works wonders for the skin.
Despite my initial reluctance to undress in public (onsen rules forbid bathing), washing on a small stool in women’s restrooms before soaking in the water is a nightly ritual I enjoy. There are indoor and outdoor pools, as well as an ice bath for others. The open-air spring is my place of satisfaction: not too cold, not too hot and no other bathers. As I tilt my head back to look for my favorite constellations in the jet-black galaxy, I still understand why other people are so far away from such an undeniable experience: feeling whole again.
See more
See more
AFAR participates in partner marketing programs, which means that we may earn a commission if you purchase a featured article on our site. © 2024 AFAR LLC