The ropeway doors slid open, and the cold walked straight in.
Thirty seconds earlier, I had been warm. Pressed against the window in a car full of strangers, watching the forest drop away below us, I’d been doing my usual pre-hike ritual of patting my pack. Water. Rain jacket. Gloves. A rice ball in crinkly plastic. A second snack I was pretending I hadn’t packed.
Then I stepped out at Sugatami Station, and the wind found my ears.
I laughed out loud. Nobody else did.
Hello, mountain!
Why I Came Up Here
I had spent the week in Hokkaido‘s cities, eating well and walking a lot, but always between buildings. I wanted one day where the horizon did the talking. Somewhere bigger than me, my plans, and my phone.
It was a completely different experience from exploring Japan’s bustling cities, where attractions like Akihabara and teamLab showcase the country’s futuristic side. Up here, nature was the only attraction I needed.
I didn’t want a summit. I wanted a walk. I wanted a nature break.
The Sugatami Pond loop felt right. It’s a marked trail circling the ponds near the top of the Asahidake Ropeway, a gentle and a little easy to wander compared with the summit route that climbs away from it toward Mt. Asahidake’s peak. I’d chosen July, when the snow is still melting and the alpine plants seem to arrive all at once.
That morning, I had checked the ropeway status and the weather at the top. The official site was clear that conditions can change quickly, even when the day starts sunny. I’d laced up my thickest-soled shoes and taken the rain jacket I almost left on the bed.
Good decision, Lorelai. Write that one down.
First Steps
The trail began with a crunch.
Gravel and broken volcanic stone shifted under my boots, gray and rust-colored, rough enough that I had to watch my feet. Ropes and posts marked the path on either side, keeping walkers off the fragile ground. Tiny plants grew low against the earth, white and pale yellow flowers no taller than my thumb, tucked between rocks as if hiding from the wind.
And snow. Actual snow, in July. Long patches of it lay in the hollows, crusted and slightly dirty at the edges, breathing cold air across the path.
Then the smell reached me. Sulfur, faint and eggy, carried on the breeze before I could see where it came from.
What kind of place smells like a hot spring and looks like late winter at the same time?
The Part Where I Stopped Talking
The path rose gently. Gently on paper, anyway.
At home, a slope like that wouldn’t register. Up here, my breathing got louder. My calves woke up. I had been narrating everything to myself, the flowers, the snow, a cloud shaped vaguely like a teapot, and somewhere along the way I simply stopped.
Boots on stone. Breath. Wind. Boots again.
Around an exposed bend, the cloud slid down off the slope and swallowed the view. The temperature dropped almost instantly. I stopped and pulled on my jacket, zipping it to my chin, fingers clumsy with cold.
Ten minutes later, the cloud lifted, the sun returned, and I was too warm.
Jacket off. Jacket on. The mountain was clearly managing my wardrobe now.
I also kept getting distracted. Three steps, a photo. Two steps, another photo of what was basically the same rock. A walker passing in the other direction gave me a small nod, the kind that said yes, we all do that.
Sugatami Pond
Then the path curved, and there it was.
Sugatami Pond sat still in its stony bowl, and in the water, upside down and wavering, was Mt. Asahidake itself. Above the real mountain, white steam rose from vents on the upper slope, drifting sideways in the wind. In the pond, the steam rose too, in perfect quiet reverse.
I found a spot along the marked path where I could stand without blocking anyone, and I just looked.
The wind ruffled the surface, and the reflection broke into a hundred pieces. Then it settled. The mountain came back. Then the wind returned and erased it again.
I watched this happen maybe a dozen times. I didn’t take a single photo and savored the moment in my mind.
This was also, finally, the moment for the snack negotiation. I’d been arguing with myself since the snow patches. Too early. You’ve barely started. But you’re on a mountain. Mountains change the rules. I unwrapped the rice ball with cold fingers. It was squashed, slightly salty, and perfect.
I had read that the Ainu people called the high ground of Daisetsuzan Kamuimintara, the garden where the gods play. Standing there, chewing, nose running, I didn’t feel like a god. I felt like a guest who had wandered into the garden and been allowed to stay for lunch.
I only saw a small corner of this park today. That felt exactly right.
The Way Back
The return loop felt different. My legs were heavier, and the light had moved. The snow patches looked bluer in the shade, and the steam had thickened against a grayer sky. I kept a steady pace, stayed between the ropes, and let my mind go quiet.
Back at the summit station, I bought a cup of the coffee they brew with Asahidake meltwater and wrapped both hands around it. Steam curled up from the paper cup, and I thought about the vents across the pond, still breathing up there without anyone watching.
On the ride down, the forest rose to meet us. My cheeks stung pleasantly. When I glanced at my boots, a small gray stone was wedged in the tread, carried down from the trail without my permission.
I didn’t pick it out right away.
I sat there, warm cup going cool, and let it ride with me a little longer.
