Canoeing, Snowshoeing, and Embracing Adventure in Japan

Winter canoeing may sound absurd—two words that clash like sardine gelato. Yet here I am, seated in the front of a twin canoe, 5,000 miles from home, gliding across a semi-frozen lake in winter. Snow blankets the shore, while swans dive gracefully in the mist, leaving behind delicate ripples. Surprisingly, the weather is mild: the sun shines brightly against a vibrant blue sky. My gloves are tucked away, and my hat remains in the van. This isn’t typical February weather for Hokkaido, Japan—thanks, global warming—but it’s stunningly beautiful.

Hokkaido, Japan’s northernmost island, is the largest and most untamed of its 47 prefectures. Though I’ve visited before, my past trips were mostly to Sapporo, famed for its beer and seafood, and its proximity to ski resorts like Niseko. Surrounded by three seas and dotted with ancient forests, cobalt lakes, and snow-capped peaks, Hokkaido feels worlds apart from the bustling streets and flashing billboards of Tokyo. While tourism surged on the island's eastern side during the pandemic, you can still drive for half an hour without encountering another vehicle.

Eastern Hokkaido boasts three national parks, and my winter journey kicks off at Lake Kussharo in Akan-Mashu National Park. Kussharo is Japan’s largest caldera lake and the second largest in the world. During summer, its waters, rich with trout and carp, attract anglers and sailors. In winter, it's mainly Satoshi Yoshida, co-founder of Kussharo Eco Tours, and other outdoor enthusiasts who revel in its beauty.

Originally hailing from Hiroshima but captivated by Hokkaido’s clear lakes and mountains, Yoshida has dedicated 15 years to exploring this secluded region. After donning our waders, we paddle as far into the lake as possible until we encounter a sheet of sparkling ice. Yoshida then directs our canoe toward the tranquil Kushiro-gawa, the lake's only connecting river. It winds for 62 miles before flowing into the Pacific Ocean, though the longest excursions he offers span just over four miles. Joining us today are sister pups Aki and Yuki, calm border collie mixes dressed in adorable heart-print pajamas.

With Yoshida’s keen eyes scanning the riverbanks, we catch sight of a majestic white-tailed sea eagle perched high like a sentinel among the trees. Also in view are vibrant green mosses adorning gnarled trunks, wild wasabi leaves thriving in their natural habitat, and a naturally fallen Manchurian ash that Yoshida suggests could be crafted into baseball bats. Thankfully, Hokkaido’s formidable Ussuri brown bears remain in hibernation, though Yoshida carries bear spray on his hip just in case. The true treasure for nature lovers is the elusive Blakiston’s fish owl, the largest owl species on the planet, native to these woods. We hear her characteristic hoo-hoo-hoo from the canopy, but she remains hidden from view.

Canoeing in winter is surprisingly cozy—what Yoshida dubs ‘soft adventure.’ Instead of wooden bench seats, we relax in comfortable folding chairs, the kind typically used at outdoor concerts. Each guest receives a paddle to feel involved, but it’s clear that Yoshida is the captain, expertly steering the canoe and occasionally hopping out in his galoshes to push us through shallow waters. We never break a sweat, but when snack time arrives, we gather eagerly around a chabudai-style portable table that Yoshida sets up on a rocky beach. Our treats include almond butter rusks his wife baked fresh this morning and a thermos brimming with hot chocolate made creamy with Hokkaido milk, renowned for its rich dairy.

Although we’ve only been paddling for about an hour, it feels like a lifetime due to our leisurely pace. This is ideal for truly absorbing our surroundings, as Yoshida points out, which is precisely why visitors come to Eastern Hokkaido: to unwind and find their zen. It’s a rare opportunity for me to escape my hectic daily life, and I fully embrace the tranquility offered by this experience.

This slower pace—toward nature and life—is also embraced by Shinobu Katase, a landscape photographer who has spent the last decade guiding snowshoeing tours around the nearby Lake Mashu. Created by a volcanic eruption 7,000 years ago, this caldera lake in Akan-Mashu Park is renowned for its crystal-clear waters. The volcanic rocks serve as a natural filtration system, but the lake remains pristine primarily because access is restricted for humans and their motorized vehicles, preventing any interference with its beauty.

This is why we’re clomping around the caldera’s edge in snowshoes, with slender white birch trees marking the boundary between us and the steep drop into the vibrant blue depths. Katase points out rabbit tracks and sasa plants pushing through the snow, which is distressingly 12 to 20 inches lower than usual for this season. We also spot a small landform in the lake’s center, known to the Ainu, Hokkaido’s indigenous people, as the “island of the gods.” During a break for hot lemonade infused with syrup Katase harvested from his maple trees, we find ourselves in a staring contest with wild deer. (We emerge victorious.)

A deep respect for nature is a recurring theme throughout my journey. For the Ainu people, who have lived on the island since the 12th or 13th century, this reverence is a fundamental aspect of life, as explained by Kengo Takiguchi, an Indigenous tour guide from Anytime, Ainutime! in the cultural village of Lake Akan Ainu Kotan. At 41, Takiguchi is the youngest guide in his community and does not exaggerate when he notes that both the Ainu language and culture face threats of extinction. The Japanese government has only recently recognized the Ainu as Indigenous; Takiguchi hopes this acknowledgment will spark a resurgence of pride, though some still hide their heritage to fit into mainstream Japanese society. His mission is to preserve and celebrate Ainu language, cuisine, spiritual beliefs, wood carving, embroidery, and musical traditions. He even demonstrates the mukkuri, a traditional mouth harp, and invites me to join in (to cringeworthy effect).

Though Takiguchi’s tour is set to begin the next day in a town about an hour’s drive from Lake Kussharo, he ventures into the snowy woods, identifying various plants and their uses along the way: willows for carving spirits, nettle fibers for making fishing lines, and medicinal berries for treating stomach aches. The Ainu believe that everything on this earth—the trees, rivers, lakes—are gifts from beyond, and maintaining respect for nature is central to their beliefs and practices.

Water significantly shapes my experience in Eastern Hokkaido. It’s visible in the sulfurous eruptions of rugged Mount Iōzan, a tumultuous volcano where green fumaroles emit steam and smoke, reminiscent of a Cheech & Chong scene, with the smell of rotten eggs thick in the air. This geothermal activity powers the nearby hot springs town of Kawayu Onsen, which serves as my base for the week. Though nearly 7,500 people reside here, the quiet, snow-covered streets and the steaming stream winding through town give the impression of solitude.

As night falls, I eagerly anticipate soaking in the open-air onsen at Oyado Kinkiyu Bettei Suikazura, an old resort hotel with distinct bathing areas for men and women. The water, sourced directly from Iōzan, is highly acidic and can corrode jewelry; however, locals swear by its skin benefits.

Initially hesitant to undress in public (onsen etiquette prohibits swimsuits), I soon come to cherish the nightly ritual of washing up on a small stool in the ladies’ bathhouse before slipping into the soothing waters. The facility features both indoor and outdoor pools, plus an ice bath for the adventurous. The outdoor spring becomes my sanctuary—perfectly tempered, without the company of other bathers. Leaning back to gaze at my favorite constellations in the dark sky above, I finally grasp why so many travel great distances for such a simple pleasure: to feel complete once more.