Winters are long in Hokkaido. Freezing air from Siberia blasts down over the Sea of Japan, sucking up moisture along its path. When it hits the mountains of Hokkaido, northernmost of Japan’s major islands, conditions are ripe for a season-long blizzard. If the Old Testament were set in the Far East, Noah would have needed an igloo instead of ark.
A place in the snow
I came to Japan seeking winter. Since I learned about the seasonnaire life on a trip to Morzine in my early 20s, I had harboured the ambition to make the mountains my home, not just a week-long holiday destination. But work, Covid and other enticing trips had seen the winters of my youth whittled away. Until now.
In the skiing world, they don’t call it Japan. They call it Japow, in honour of the most legendary powder snow in the world. In Niseko, perhaps the best known of Hokkaido’s resorts, they report average winter snowfall of 14m. For European ski resorts, fresh powder days are the Holy Grail. For Niseko, they are just another day at the office.
But, with all that snow and all those winds, comes the cold. Biting, furious cold. As far as temperatures go, I had been spoiled by Alpine skiing where the sun always shines. Jackets are half-zipped, gloves are paper-thin, and sunglasses are the preferred choice of eyewear. In Japan, it’s layers by the dozen, heavy-insulated mittens, and goggles firmly sealed over helmets and balaclavas.
Even with all the technical clothing, I still could not manage to keep fingers and toes warm. It would be all right when I left the cosy heat of my lodge in the mornings, every inch of skin swaddled except for my nose. But after hours dangling from exposed chair lifts and standing on slopes learning to teach, I would feel the icy tendrils of the deep freezer snaking their way into my boots and mitts. Once I lose circulation to these areas, it’s almost impossible for me to get it back without going inside. You see, I have Raynaud’s.
Allergic to the cold
A lot of people with Raynaud’s syndrome don’t know they have it. For many years I was in that camp myself. Ever since I was a child, I can recall my fingers and toes becoming painfully cold when I spent time outside in the winter. But, as a dutiful biology student, I believed that this vasoconstriction was the body’s natural response to preserving its core temperature.
As I grew older, the condition worsened to the point that I could no longer observe my favoured practices of wearing shorts and going barefoot around the house in the colder months. My toes developed stubborn chilblains that lingered from November to March. Girlfriends remarked that my hands were always freezing, and I marvelled at the fabulous finger capillaries they seemed to possess.
I finally twigged that something deeper was awry when I noticed my fingertips had turned deathly pale during a walk to the shops on a frosty morning. The colour did not return for several minutes, even once I was back inside. Googling my symptoms unveiled a variety of diagnostic pages and internet forums bemoaning the condition. A visit to my GP confirmed my suspicions. I had officially joined the poor circulation society.
Looking for trouble
Japan was my first time hitting the slopes since receiving my diagnosis. I knew I was letting myself in for some potential misery, but I hoped that good layering and energetic skiing could keep the ghostly extremities at bay. I even thought that the trainers running my instructor course could give me some tips. As it transpired, I was surprised by how few of them were familiar with the condition. It seems that people who are medically advised to avoid cold temperatures don’t tend to make a living by standing in the snow.
For the first few weeks, energetic skiing was off the table. We spent our time standing on wind-scoured mountainsides, having technical discussions about leg rotation and pretending there wasn’t a blizzard in progress. I tried to engage with the classes and work on my technique, but much of the time I was in agony. I couldn’t wait for lunch or the end of the day when there would be the respite of a hut or heated vehicle to give some relief to my haemoglobin-starved limbs. Sometimes the burning sensations when the blood returned made me feel light-headed and sick.
Technology to the Rescue
One of the Thai guys with me on the course seemed not to like the cold much either. I suppose snow must come as something of a shock when you’re from a country where winter temperatures regularly exceed 30 Celsius. His name was Tiew, and his gloves emitted a pulsing red glow, like the signal lights of ships at anchor. When I asked him about the glow, he waggled his fingers and told me conspiratorially that the gloves provided 8 hours of warmth from a concealed battery.
A reputable pair of heated gloves turned out to be rather pricey online, as did their companion piece, the heated sock. But Japan’s well-stocked convenience store culture came to the rescue. At an outlet called Hirafu 188, just 20 minute’s walk from my winter lodge, I could pick up a seemingly endless supply of cheap disposable heaters. Not the most environmentally friendly solution, but desperate times sometimes call for desperate measures.
Each morning now, I whip out two sachets from their sealed packages and place one in each mitt. Exposed to the air, some chemical wizardry causes them to emit a steady stream of warmth throughout the day. In similar fashion, I stick heat pads to the tops of my socks, fighting back against the creeping cold, even when deep powder envelops the outside of my boots.
Coda
I wish I were not a slave to these modern conveniences. I wish my body did not rebel against my love of the mountains in winter. I wish I could do the things other people can do, like stripping off their gloves to snap photos and shape snowballs and sup at street food stalls.
I’m trying to train my cold response with a Wim Hof regime of icy morning showers. Others online claim this has helped to abate their symptoms. Maybe, in time, it will bear fruit for me too. But, for now, I’ll keep going with my mitts and my heaters and my lunchtime bowls of piping hot ramen. Because although the things we love can hurt us, that doesn’t mean we have to give them up. And, in any case, those black runs aren’t going to ski themselves.
