Skiing Hokkaido’s powder triangle

“Insane, isn’t it?!” Kyle yelled from thirty feet below, leaning back on his snowboard to watch me struggle.

I summoned every ounce of strength in my jet-lagged body to prize my legs, still attached to skis, from several feet of fresh snow. Wedged sideways, I pulled myself up by a tree root, alternating between hysterical laughter and acute panic as little progress was made in five minutes. I’d come to Japan for the powder — and I’d sure found it on my first morning in Furano, Hokkaidō. Fighting to stand up, I steeled myself to tackle the impossibly light powder reaching my armpits, on the widest skis I’d ever clipped into. It really did feel different to snow in the US or Europe. This would take some getting used to.

“You said you wanted ‘Japow’!”

I couldn’t argue with my new friend, who I’d bumped into at the top of the Kitanomine Gondola, just an hour after he fitted my rentals at a Rhythm shop. I’d shared big plans to explore what locals call the “powder triangle,” flying 4,100 miles in search of the fluffy snow Japan is so famous for. After he gave up his lunch break to direct me to his favorite run, I could hardly tell him I’d need a minute to find my ski legs.

Freezing Siberian winds pick up moisture over the Sea of Japan and famously dump top-quality snow across Hokkaidō, the northernmost island in the Japanese archipelago. While European ski conditions become increasingly unpredictable, Japan retains some of the highest snowfall rates in the world — and its hospitality game is strong, too. Invited to explore three resorts and three hotels by the Luxe Nomad, I’d finally made it after years of wanderlust. Just getting there was a bucket-list moment, the Japanese transport system requiring patience I also had to dig deep for. A flight from Mumbai, followed by a train ride across Tokyo from Narita airport to Haneda, then a flight to New Chitose and a two-hour car transfer to the Fenix Furano proved to be worth the struggle. My super-modern apartment was so close to the line of riders for first lift, I had time for a lie-in, and had to take care not to flash anyone as I got up and pulled on my ski pants.

Perfectly embodying Japanese “wa” (best described as people living together, in harmony) sixty-two full-service studios and apartments overlook Daisetsuzan National Park and Mount Tokachi, brilliantly convenient for a tired adventurer. The basin-shaped valley has hosted the FIS Downhill World Cup twelve times — and after two days of rag-dolling down its famous tree-lined slopes, I understood why. Pistes conquered, I called on the reception staff to help me plan a train ride to Rusutsu resort just over 100 miles away, where I’d meet a friend. We’d planned to link up in Furano and hire a car for the onward journey, but my International License-holding comrade had been delayed flying in from Palisades Tahoe, itself buried under eight feet of the white stuff (the irony).

Arriving at the Vale Rusutsu felt like a fever dream, though my friend Marcus touched down in time to pick me up en route, back at New Chitose. Within hours we found ourselves on a closed road — signposted in Japanese — thick snow rendering us so stuck, two chefs spent their cigarette break pushing us out. A flying start to his trip; I didn’t have the heart to tell him when I later discovered we could have reached our desired ramen joint on foot. A huge indoor walkway connects the Vale to an uncannily kitsch shopping center laid out like a town from a deranged Disney movie, full of restaurants, cafés and hotels built during the Eighties “ski boom.” We hadn’t come for the ten-foot robotic talking tree, nor the full-sized fairground carousel filled with demonic-looking pigs, but they were certainly an amusing add-on.

Flinging open the curtains of our beautiful, condominium-style digs, we could see the beginnings of forty-two kilometers of slopes that span two distinct peaks — more than enough to keep us busy for two days, despite hitting quicker speeds than I’d managed in Furano. We found uncrowded wide-open spaces and tons of natural features among the trees, though relatively flat slopes warranted some sweaty hikes back to pistes that would get us home. Another charming idiosyncrasy: the lifts are old, and downright dubious-looking in places, adding a thrilling layer of amusement or peril depending on your nerves and experience. Snow cover was lighter than you might expect in peak season, but whizzing down the Giant course from the summit of West Mountain and past roller coasters at Rusutsu Amusement Park is a memory that more than makes up for it. With Marcus battling a fifteen-hour time difference, our evenings were lowkey, punctuated by leisurely visits to the Vale’s luxurious Kotobuki onsen, where naturally hot water trickles through two springs and guests unwind in saunas and cave baths, Jacuzzi bubbles tickling their feet. It’s a truly iconic place to lean into Japan’s ancient tradition of public bathing, where gendered outdoor baths give sweeping views of the national park. I hoped the waters rich with sodium bicarbonate would soothe my skin, dry from air travel and launching myself down mountains.

Ravenous, but keen to avoid any more car trouble, we raided the fridge at Seed Bagel and Coffee Company back at the hotel, finding ingredients to cook up in our suite’s Italian-style kitchen. Dairy products are particularly good in Hokkaidō — a cool climate and fresh air makes for happy cows — so we made sure to feature cheese heavily, for research purposes.

Our next meal was no lighter, and equally excellent. Making the twenty-minute drive to Niseko, the final stop on our tour, we stopped at a typically modest, typically sensational small business, abruptly pulling up in a snowy forest.

“No photos please!” Boulangerie Jin’s owner entreated me, as I pulled out my phone. Her selection of homemade pastries and breads looked casually world-class, and like most of Japan’s foodstuffs, preposterously well-priced. We left with armfuls of raisin bread, flaky cheese twists and thick almond croissants, which we toasted, reheated and squabbled over throughout our last three mornings, washed down with hot tea from vending machines.

“The party is by the traffic lights,” the receptionist at Niseko Kyo smiled as we wheeled our bags through. Our slopeside studio room boasted a kitchen, but it’d go unused, the buzzy town of Hirafu beckoning. There I discovered one of my favorite restaurants of all time (“top secret,” staff warned me not to reveal) and a throng of drinking dens long conquered by skiers before us. We hit Half Note for live music, Tamashii for snacks, an outdoor kiosk for natural wine, Bar Gyu+ to show off that we’d managed to get a table and Freddies, where we watched a barman set his face on fire after lighting a shot of high-proof rum.

As for skiing? Even challenged by hangovers, I could begin to understand why Niseko’s so often called Japan’s best. Four resorts operate under the Niseko United umbrella, and you can ski between them if you time it right, using the same pass. Hanazono, Grand Hirafu, Niseko Village and Annupuri offer unique experiences, our base of Grand Hirafu the largest. Within minutes of pulling on our boots, King Lift #4 took us to Gate 3, the Hirafu Peak Gate at 1,180 meters. On a crisp bluebird, we joined the slow trickle of people making the additional 128-meter vertical climb to the summit of Mount Annupuri, the only place you want to sink a beer when the sun is shining. The Niseko Volcanic range spanning Lake Toya, Kutchan, the Sea of Japan and the Pacific are clearly visible from the magnificent vantage point, watched over by majestic Mount Yotei.

Our ride down to Annupuri’s base played out like a video game, a natural halfpipe handily leading to the Annupuri Gondola. Or it would have been handy, if we hadn’t got carried away ordering up karaage, katsu curry and beers from Yotei Brewing during a celebratory late lunch, missing the last lift entirely. All’s well that ends well — a Korean instructor who’d just finished night-skiing offered us a ride home. Plus, some news.

“Big storm, on the way! Snow!” he yelled, slapping our backs as we loaded our skis into his trunk.

“No! I leave tomorrow!” I complained, my return flight to Tokyo fast approaching. Back at Niseko Kyo, Marcus and I parted to soak in the hotel onsens. We each emerged with the same conclusion: we’d change our flights. Japow was what we’d come for, after all.

Amy was a guest of the Luxe Nomad. Please find the winter rates below

FenixFurano: from $277

The Vale Rusutsu: from $271

Niseko Kyo: from $503

This article was originally published in The Spectator’s January 2025 World edition.