Winter in Furano: A Loveletter
The Cold
The wind comes down from the north. It sweeps over the mountains, gathering snow and the sharp bite of frost. In Furano, the cold is a certainty. The air is clear and cuts you clean. You feel it in your chest, in the deep parts of your lungs. The temperature is brutal, sometimes sinking to -20°C at night. The snow is thick, steady, and unforgiving, falling day and night until it covers everything. It piles high on rooftops and roads, and when the sun rises, it glistens under the pale light, as if the world is made of diamonds. You come to know the cold like an old friend, harsh but familiar.
The Snow
In Furano, the snow is relentless. It blankets the ground, soft at first, then heavy as it settles. It drifts and banks and swirls in the air, finding its way into every corner, every crack. But it is not a bad thing. No, the snow is your companion here. It covers the land, quiets the world, softens the edges of life. You wake up to the sound of silence, only the creak of the trees in the cold or the muffled hum of the wind. It is snow that makes Furano beautiful, makes it whole. Without it, this place is not Furano.
On Skis
The mountains rise up like giants around you. Mount Tokachi, with its jagged peaks, is the most fearsome. The slopes of Furano are steep, and the snow beneath your skis is like powder, soft and light. It gives way under your weight, but never too much. You glide down the mountains, carving into the snow, feeling the rush of cold air against your face. The world blurs by, white and silent, and for a moment, it feels like you’re the only one here.
But the mountains demand respect. They are unforgiving, and if you don’t heed their warning, you will find yourself lost in the cold. You learn quickly here. You learn to read the snow, feel the weight of it underfoot, and trust your instincts. Furano is not a place for the weak. But if you have the courage, it will reward you with the most perfect runs, the kind that stay with you long after you’ve left.
On a Board
On a snowboard, the powder is your ally. You lean into it, let it carry you. The slopes in Furano are wide, open, and perfect for it. You cut through the snow, leaving a trail behind, and when you stop to look back, there is nothing but the long line of your ride. No one else has been here today. The snow is yours, and you own it.
In Furano, snowboarding feels different. The cold doesn’t sting as much, and the snow is softer. You find yourself moving faster, carving sharper turns, and trusting the mountain. The powder is so deep that when you fall, it catches you, cushions you. You get back up and keep going, because that’s what you do here. You don’t stop.
The People
The people of Furano are quiet. They live with the cold like it’s part of them. There is a calmness to them, a kind of patience that comes from years of winters like this. You don’t ask them for much, and they don’t expect much in return. They respect the mountains, the snow, and the cold. They understand it better than anyone.
In the small inns and ryokans, the owners greet you with a bow, their hands red from the cold. They move quickly, preparing your room, stoking the fire, making sure you’re warm. You don’t need words with these people. They know why you’re here, and they leave you to it. But in the evenings, when the cold has settled in your bones, they offer you a small cup of sake, warm and sharp, and it is then that you feel the warmth of this place.
The Food
The food in Furano is simple, but it sustains you. After a long day on the slopes, you crave something warm, something rich. The local fare is hearty—hot pots full of meat, vegetables, and broth that warms you from the inside out. There is salmon from the nearby rivers, fresh and fatty, served raw or grilled. And always, there is rice, sticky and steaming, to fill you up. In the morning, you wake to bowls of miso soup and salted fish, the kind of food that gives you the strength to face the cold.
The ramen here is unlike any you’ve had. Thick noodles, a broth that is rich with pork fat, and slices of meat that melt in your mouth. You sit at a small counter in the heart of town, your hands wrapped around the hot bowl, steam rising into the cold air, and for a moment, you are warm. It is a brief comfort, but it is more than enough.
The Culture
Furano is quiet, but there is life here. The festivals, small but bright, bring warmth to the cold. The Sapporo Snow Festival is famous, but here in Furano, the celebrations are more intimate. Lanterns line the streets, their light flickering against the white snow. Children play in the snowdrifts, their laughter the only sound in the air. It is a peaceful joy, the kind that sneaks up on you.
There is a reverence here for nature. You feel it in the way the people speak, in the way they treat the land. The mountains, the snow, the cold—they are not enemies but companions. You respect them, and in return, they let you stay a while longer.
The Ending
Winter in Furano is not for the faint of heart. It is cold, it is harsh, and it demands something from you. But if you give it your time, if you respect the snow and the mountains, it will give you something back. You will leave with the memory of cold mornings, the feeling of your skis or board carving through the best powder on earth, the warmth of a small inn in the middle of nowhere. You will leave, but a part of you will stay here, in the snow, in the cold, in Furano.