Hokkaido Koyo

I find myself lying awake in the simple bunk beds at Fukiage Onsen, tucked into the forests at the base of Tokachidake. The room is silent — it has to be. No talking, no music, and definitely no late-night laughter after 9pm. Only the state of “wa” (harmony). I am sharing the room with my colleague and travel partner Alex, along with three random Japanese hikers who seem perfectly at ease with the rules of quiet. The pillows are the traditional そば殻枕 (sobakawa makura) — buckwheat hull pillows, firm and a little crunchy at first, but surprisingly comfortable once you settle in. In the quiet I can hear their steady breathing, a reminder that morning is coming fast.

Before sunrise we’re already awake. We move carefully so as not to wake the other hikers. Outside, the air is sharp and still, laced with the faint smell of sulfur drifting down from the vents higher up the mountain. Headlamps click on, backpacks snap shut — our Japanese companion’s neatness is on full display. Everything has its place. Every item is packed with intention. No dangling straps, no chaos. Just order. Even the gaiters — everyone wears them in Japan— perfectly fitted to keep the volcanic dust and mud away. In contrast, Alex and I shuffle out with our messy packs, straps hanging loose, stuffed with chunky analog cameras and bags of medium format film. Our disarray only makes the precision of our Japanese companions stand out more.

A small brass bell dangles from our packs. The bear bell. We want the Hokkaido brown bears to know we’re around, so it chimes with every step, a soft metallic sound that carries into the forest. There’s a strange comfort in that sound, somewhere between warning and prayer, a reminder that we’re only visitors in their mountains. In Daisetsuzan National Park, more than 1,500 Hokkaido brown bears roam the valleys and ridges, making it the most densely populated bear habitat in Japan.

Step by step, the trail pulls us upward into the high country as the horizon turns pale. The first light reveals colors sharper than paint — dark green pines, volcanic greys and browns, patches of rusty red. The trail leads us into the Nukkakushi Crater, a vast valley encircled by the uppermost reaches of the Nukkakushi Furano River, Mt. Sandan, Mt. Kamihorokamettoku, and Mt. Kamifurano. Steam rises from the volcanic vents scattered across the basin, carrying the sharp sulfur smell of a living mountain.

By mid-morning we stop. Onigiri — rice balls wrapped in nori and filled with everything from pickled plum to salmon — appear from simple wrapping, and Alex carefully prepares drip coffee with a tiny hand filter balanced on a mug. I’m fiddling with the packet of freeze-dried Japanese curry, waiting for the hot water to do its work. A passing hiker squints at me through the mist and mutters something about a bear — only catching the outline of my dark brown wool fleece. We laugh, but not too loudly.