I’ve often talked about the unusual geography of Japan. It stretches like a string of pearls dangling from frozen Kamchatka to the North, over rugged mountains and dense cities, all the way to the orchid-covered island of Taiwan. Last summer I descended as far South as Japan would allow me, paddling through its jungles and swimming with its mantas. This winter, I went North.

Dad was more astonished than I to see the blanketed city of Abashiri at the end of Hokkaido. Beyond lay the Okhotsk Sea, eternally cold, home to ghostly cod floating beneath hundreds of metres of water, looking for a hook to bite. The winter had brought snow up to our knees, sliding from the roofs at night when people turned up their stoves, packed into ice on the sidewalks, where we walked like penguins, looking for our hotel and a hot dinner.

But we didn’t fly to Abashiri to see the snow. You see, some other quirk makes the region unique on our planet. Every winter, Eastern Siberia floods down the mighty Amur River, choking the small Okhotsk Sea with fresh water, which makes the Sea freeze easier and quicker. Large expanses of ice form at the estuary, swiftly brought down by the currents, until they crash into Hokkaido. This makes it by far the southernmost place in the Northern Hemisphere to see ice floes. 

The weeks running up to our two-day visit were filled with concerning news. Record storms blew in from across the Sea of Japan, piling several metres of snow over Northern Japan. The media reported about thirty casualties, and we feared not being able to go at all. Then, a miracle: the clouds parted as we set sail upon the frozen sea. 

The sky was clear and blue, not a cloud in sight. Sunlight refracted through the pack ice, glistening and glittering like a fairy tale. In the distance, the string of volcanoes that make up the wild lands of Shiretoko dominated the horizon. We left the next morning, overcast and dark. It wouldn’t be sunny again for weeks to come.

We landed in Akita, a different kind of North. Known in Tokyo for its delicious sake and sturdy dogs, we had come to see something altogether different, but not unrelated. Because every winter, continuous icy winds blow from the expanse of Siberia over the gray waters of the Japanese Sea. The air fills with water, frozen to crystals, and blocked by the tall mountains that form the archipelago, the sharp winds and threatening clouds drop all their snow. Over ten metres in some spots. Nowhere else on the planet does it snow like in Akita.

Slowly we approached the mountains. Imposing volcanic cones had caught the snow brought by those record-setting storms, hiding entire forests until only the tallest trees still pierced the perfectly smooth white. Narrow canyons cut through the snow, first level with the window, but soon growing two metres tall, then three, until the crystal wall towered above the little car. Still, more snow was falling.

In spring the snow will melt, but only slowly. The fields will remain flooded with cold, clean water, keeping the rice happy and healthy. Streams will descend the heights to keep the harvest plentiful. Not for nothing that Akita is famous for its delicious sake. And in case you ever aim to wander its snowy forests, keep the sturdy, furry Akita dog by your side. Only its thick coat can withstand the winter, and its strength will guide you home. A home that I will miss.