The Snowboarder's Journal • frequency 17.1 • THE FLAVOR OF THE MOUNTAINS: Fresh Lines in Yuzawa, Japan

“It’s Michelin-level food,” Travis says, referring to an ephemeral ryokan in the Japanese Alps somewhere beyond Yuzawa. “You guys have to get up here.”

On the other side of the screen, seven of us huddle together to grin back at Travis. Elena Hight organized this crew, the first trip of her two-year project with Teton Gravity Research. Hana Beaman’s joined her, along with RED cam operators Gabe Langlois and Sean Aaron, producer Justin Fann, TGR photographer/production assistant Leslie Hittmeier, and me.

We’re in the basement of a 10-story, concrete monolith of a hotel, buffet tickets in hand. Vacationers shuffle by in decidedly midrange kimonos, headed for the onsen down the hall. While less visually appealing than the exclusive natural springs where Travis and Shin are currently ensconced, the water is pure. There’s so much hydrothermal activity in Yuzawa that hot water literally gushes out of the streets to keep the town’s tight, two-lane streets clear of inch-an-hour snowfall. The onsen’s revitalizing mineral odor mingles with that of our impending meal plan: roast beef, crab legs, five varieties of miso soup and more.

Travis has been on a roll here in Japan. He arrived in a private jet belonging to an unnamed benefactor alongside Baldface Lodge boss Jeff Pensiero. They spent a week living large on Hokkaido before Travis went to Hakuba, rode a week of powder, and stood atop the podium. Now, he’s led us to a less-explored corner of Honshu seeking new lines. And where Travis goes, you follow—sometimes that means crowding into a mega-hotel for weekending tourists from Tokyo.

Japan’s main island of Honshu got off to a slow start last winter. Lower elevations in Hakuba were unusually thin. Elena and Hana had arrived before the rest of the crew and reported marginal, windblown conditions. But by the time I got there in the third week of January, the usual North Pacific moisture had arrived, bringing two feet of new snow. We could have stayed in Hakuba—they had a nice cabin already secured on the outskirts of town, lift access, knowledge of nearby terrain, all the trappings of easy film days. But the lure of someplace new was enough to send us packing.

Yuzawa is easily accessed from Japan’s megalopolis via the Shinkansen bullet train—it’s only an hour-long ride from Tokyo station. Yet, compared to Hakuba, it’s rarely visited by foreigners. To get to Yuzawa, we had to drive over a winding mountain pass, and that takes awhile in an overstuffed toaster-shaped rental van. Luckily, said mountain pass went through typically steep mountains. As we drove east and gained elevation, the snowbanks grew from five to 15 feet high, prompting us to stop and sample a few roadside attractions under rapidly changing weather. A step ahead of us, Travis had mapped out several promising zones, and sent us pins like a trail of breadcrumbs to chase lines for the day as he freerode with Shin. I began to wonder if Travis was simply buying time, getting a few more laps in before the need to log footage slowed down his powder-pillaging operation. And I wouldn’t blame him for doing so.

Meanwhile, we passed people engaged in all forms of snow removal, using everything from hand shovels to a colossal, elephant-like machine that hoovered up new snow, spat it out in front of a rotating blade, and vaporized most of its molecular structure.

Then, arrival: In contrast to the chic, modern village of Hakuba, Yuzawa felt like a throwback to the 1980s. Imposing high-rises in various earthy shades dominated the scene, towering over tight streets that are home to 8,000-or-so folks. But there were mountains in every direction, or so we’d been told. Thick snowflakes obscured everything beyond a hundred-yard radius. They stacked impossibly high; eight inches deep on the power lines. Travis would meet us at nearby Mt. Naeba in the morning. For now, we’d settle into the NASPA New Otani Resort and try the buffet.

Morning brings sunshine and a rendezvous with Travis and Shin in the Naeba parking lot. A couple of gondolas rise from the formidable slopeside hotel—the mountain is one of many in Japan’s Prince Hotel network—serving a high ridgeline that rolls off into a series of massive gullies, most of which are very off limits. Dave Nurse, a new friend from New Zealand, relays this information as we board the gondola. He’d driven up from Tokyo that morning and, upon hearing we were in town, agreed to play tour guide. After confirming the patrol doesn’t want us ducking ropes—they shut us down immediately when we try to dip out of bounds beyond the main gondola—Dave steers us into warming powder below a closed lift mid-mountain. It’s clear we’ll need to get as high as possible.

Travis hatches a plan. “Should we go secret squirrel?” he asks. “Light and fast?”

We split into two groups with Travis, Elena, Sean and me taking the highline to forbidden fruit. A quick exit from the upper-mountain double chair and we’re onto that adjacent ridgeline, post-holing toward the start of a long, steep gully. Nobody follows us out there, several thousand feet above the valley floor. After cutting the slope, we drop into a small bowl that leads to a widely spaced deciduous forest. A kamoshika eyes us through the woods. Tracks from this sacred, cloven-hoofed alpine serow are everywhere, plotting a course across steep walls, into unknown pillow fields. They love rowdy terrain.

It feels like these gullies must go on forever, creek to creek and ridge to ridge, an endless supply of powder lines just a little farther out, a little farther back. A hasty approach turns into a measured descent as we milk it to the bottom. There, a creek runs clear, its deep pools framed by icicles. We hug the steep sides of the gorge, crossing a snowbridge to flatter ground. Japanese cedars, snow caked to their lee sides, stand strong and tall at the bottom of the valley. A smaller creek appears burnt orange with algae, matching the color of the cedar bark. We can hear something akin to Top 40 music playing as après warms up at the base area, but we stay put in the woods, finding a little popper, playing until nightfall.

Although Naeba holds plenty of potential, its strict no-backcountry policy is a definite turnoff. It seems the place is more about the lodging than the riding anyway. Tomorrow, we’ll try something else.

“It’s skier-only,” Hana replies, pointing to a comically oversized no-snowboards sign by the elevator.

That explains the sideways glances as we walk into the lobby caked in snow with boards in hand. No wonder untracked pockets of powder are clearly visible between the cut runs. The staff is too polite to say much, though. We settle in for another round of buffet and it starts snowing again.

“Avalanche is dangerous, come down quickly! Avalanche is dangerous, come down quickllllyyyyyy!”

A few hundred feet below, in the parking lot, a chubby little man has gotten out of a chubby little police car and is broadcasting over a megaphone. His tone is urgent as he repeats himself a dozen times. We’re busted.

His voice is getting louder, higher in pitch. The talent, higher upslope than the heavily laden media crew and already strapping in, comply by slashing a little rib to the bottom. The policeman’s tone changes.

“Avalanche is dangerous, come down slowwwlllyyyy, and careeefffffuulllyyyy…”

Shin, who could get in real trouble, hides in the trees as we boot back down. The police are polite, communicating through Google Translate. Who are we? Where are we staying?

“It’s so beautiful to be in the mountains,” Travis replies, attempting to kill them with kindness. “You guys are so nice. You should hang out with the cops in San Diego…”

The dumb foreigner act works, and they leave with a wave and a smile. Still, we’ve been shut down again. It’s starting to make sense why most people opt for Hakuba. Safety is a big deal around Yuzawa.

The road is steep and narrow, just wide enough for a single vehicle, with 10-foot snowbanks. It requires a sharp right at the end of an avalanche tunnel on the main highway to access, followed by a quick chicane to the left. There are no signs for Kaikake Onsen—a traditional ryokan with tatami-matted rooms and communal baths—and it only adds to the anticipation.

Travis has finally convinced us to join him at Kaikake. It’s only 15 minutes from the garish Hotel Naeba but feels as if we’d been transported to a timeless corner of Japan.

A well-kept elderly woman who must’ve been 80 years old greets us and swiftly shows us to our traditional rooms with spongy tan floors and tatami-mat beds. In the lobby, Iwana (mountain trout) smoke on sticks next to an open fire. Handwoven children’s snowshoes are but one decoration. The onsen out back, which is split into female and male zones as is the custom, is about as idyllic as it gets. An inside pool steams hot beside washbasins, while a glass door leads to another, cooler pool among boulders and falling snow. Two paper lanterns blow in the wind. Snow-covered boulders frame the scene, a spindrift settling onto the water’s surface occasionally. A small wooden trough channels spring water into the pool.

“This onsen is known to be good for your eyes,” Shin explains. “People have come here for centuries to cure their eye problems.”

I can’t help but believe him. He then describes the fish we’d passed in the lobby. “The trout is smoked all day with only the flavor of the mountainside, a little bit of salt.”

Cue dinner: eight courses, featuring various mushrooms, hot pots, pickled salmon forehead, Iwana and so much more. The flavors are delicate, fresh, different, but never overwhelming. Local sake accompanies each course and we dine for hours.

Despite riding some deep snow, it feels like we’d been skunked up to this point—the shots aren’t coming easily, and a big crew with big cameras moves slowly. Now Travis has led us to the Eden of the Japanese Alps to reset mentally and physically. A late night moves back to the onsen, to a conga line through the snow, to an early morning accompanied by blue skies.

A short drive away are a couple of trams that bring tourists to a broad plateau and plentiful mellow terrain. But below the trams, in the river valley, the mountains steepen. Pillows and steep ridgelines are in plain sight. Problem is, they’re out of bounds. And by now, we’ve grown weary of the shutdown policies in Yuzawa.

We board the tram and look down hesitantly, hoping the lift operator won’t catch us eyeing off-limits lines. Yes, it looks good. Yes, a natural kicker is just to the left. Yes, it leads to a snow-covered road where we can set a bootpack to a bridge and back to the parking lot.

After unloading and taking a quick chairlift lap on the plateau, Travis casually walks behind a ramen house, pretending to take a leak. There’s no megaphone, or overzealous warning sign, or apologetic patrollers sent to call us off the fun stuff. We follow quietly one by one, moving swiftly to a steep pitch through the trees. It’s deep in there, untouched. We lap it a few times before heading to the other side of the tram to suss out more terrain. More pillows, it turns out, and a small, fluted face. With each lap, I expect patrol to be waiting for us, but it doesn’t happen. Could this be the place?

The blue skies were fleeting. The next day, as we wake up, Shin looks out the window and notes that “it’s snowing uphill.” Indeed, it is—flakes are floating upward next to the building.

It has already snowed seven feet in seven days, and it’s snowing even harder now, harder than I’ve ever seen it snow. We promptly drive back to the tram and dive into a total refresh. Every run gets deeper; our tracks are barely visible after an hour’s accumulation. There’s too much snow to shoot, too much snow to do anything but ride, line after line, blinded by the white.

After dinner, Shin, Hana, Travis, Gabe and I head for a resort in town, where we find a six-seater bubble lift still spinning. Travis meets a crew of locals and soon we’re 12 deep, flying fast and loose through the night, ducking ropes, slashing powder, shadows playing off one another, fully indulged. It has snowed three feet in a day, and it feels like our duty to savor every flake until last chair.

In the morning, we’ll go back to that tram, pat down a few pillows, put in work for the movie. But on this long day bleeding into night, we’ve found a glimpse of why so many westerners return to Japan year after year. There’s so much beyond the Hakuba/Niseko rotation, so many new locales to be explored. Dozens of other places like Yuzawa are out there, waiting to be ridden till the snow stops falling. I’d bet a lot of them are only a mountain pass away.

Photo Caption: A little Google Translate goes a long way. It might look like Travis Rice is lecturing the policeman in this picture, but really he’s exchanging notes on the best izakaya in the area—or something like that.

The Snowboarder's Journal - frequency 17.1

THE FLAVOR OF THE MOUNTAINS: Fresh Lines in Yuzawa, Japan

Travis Rice is holding court. He’s smiling, bearded, giddy in a crisp blue kimono. Shin Biyajima waves over his shoulder. Travis just won the Freeride World Tour event in Hakuba. That’s where we were supposed to meet them.

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