Hokkaido, Japan
January in Hokkaido doesn’t flirt — it commits. For nine days in early 2025, I worked through ice, cranes, steam, coldness and silence in Japan’s northern frontier, where winter strips the landscape back to its bones and rewards patience rather than luck. We were guided on the ground by Tsuyoshi Kato, whose deep local knowledge has been trusted for decades by professionals, including Michael Kenna. The photographic direction was led by Richard Young from New Zealand Photography Workshops ( NZPW ), bringing a calm, disciplined approach that matched the environment perfectly. Days began in darkness and ended with frozen fingers, demanding respect for both subject and season. This wasn’t sightseeing — it was photography done properly, the way it’s always been: slow, deliberate, and earned.
First morning arriving at the Lake Shikotsu area under the cover of darkness, the landscape reduced to silhouettes and guesswork as we set up by feel rather than sight. As the morning light crept in, it revealed snow-laden beaches and a stillness that felt deliberate rather than empty. The sky slowly shifted through muted pinks and greys, giving just enough colour to lift the scene without overpowering it. The transition from night to day became the subject itself, rewarding patience and restraint. In that quiet window, Lake Shikotsu showed its character — minimal, controlled, and completely indifferent to who was standing behind the camera.
Lake Shikotsu
From a photographic standpoint, Sapporo is less about the city and more about what radiates out from it. Our first day took us west to Yoichi, where snow-covered beaches meet the Sea of Japan, flattening colour and stripping scenes back to tone and shape. Ebisu Rock and Daikoku Rock rise straight out of the water, stark and immovable, demanding clean, disciplined compositions. Threaded through the landscape are the man-made tetrapods, used extensively throughout Japan, including Hokkaido, as a form of coastal defence. Designed to dissipate the force of incoming waves, they reduce erosion and protect seawalls, roads, and breakwaters. Visually, their hard geometry cuts against the softness of snow and sea — a reminder that in winter Hokkaido, even infrastructure earns its place in the frame
Daikoku Rock
Arriving at the Yarbi Dam area, the day greeted us with heavy clouds and a relentless snowfall, muting everything into a blanket of white. Visibility was low, the sky and water blending into one featureless expanse, leaving little contrast for traditional compositions. Yet the snow brought its own drama — smoothing edges, softening harsh lines, and turning the dam and surrounding slopes into abstract shapes. Every frame became a study in texture and tone rather than colour or light. It was a test of patience: compositions had to be earned through careful observation rather than obvious beauty. Even in dull, relentless weather, Hokkaido’s winter insists you pay attention — and rewards you for it in subtle, quiet ways.
Yabari Dam
By the time we reached the Takikawa area, the snowfall had eased, leaving a softer, more sculpted winter landscape. Fields and riverbanks were cloaked in fresh snow, the low light accentuating subtle textures and patterns that are easy to overlook in better weather. Here, the focus shifted to quiet compositions — lines, shapes, and the occasional lone structure breaking the endless white. It was the kind of place that rewards slowing down, framing carefully, and letting the environment dictate the image rather than forcing a scene. Even with minimal colour, the interplay of light and shadow on snow creates a mood that’s unmistakably Hokkaido. In Takikawa, winter feels expansive, patient, and entirely unhurried — especially when moving through the landscape on snowshoes, where every step slows your thinking as much as your pace. It’s the perfect setting for contemplative photography, where observation matters more than reaction, and the landscape sets the tempo, not the photographer.
Takikawa District
Arriving in the Furano area, the landscape took on a different character — a gentler, more delicate winter compared to the harsher coasts and mountains. Moving through the snow on snowshoes slowed everything down, forcing a measured pace that suited the environment perfectly. Our focus was the cherry orchards, their branches heavy with snow, bending under the weight yet arranged in clean, repetitive lines that draw the eye through the frame. The snow acted as a natural diffuser, softening light and enhancing subtle textures on bark and buds, making each image feel deliberate and considered. With few distractions, the orchards became abstract compositions of line, contrast, and rhythm — a quiet geometry shaped by winter’s restraint. In Furano, even in the depth of winter, elegance reveals itself to those willing to move slowly and pay attention.
Furano Cherry orchids
Moving into the Bei District, the landscape suddenly demanded your full attention — wow doesn’t begin to cover it. Snow-draped hills roll endlessly, punctuated by jagged rock outcrops and frozen streams that catch what little light filters through the clouds. The scale hits you: wide vistas that make every human element seem insignificant, and compositions that reward bold framing and careful consideration of negative space. Here, the interplay between untouched snow, shadowed valleys, and distant peaks creates layers that shift with every step. It’s a place that makes you slow down, think about each shot, and respect the environment for the raw, uncompromising beauty it offers. Photography in the Bei District isn’t casual — it’s immersive, demanding both patience and vision.
Dairy Farm
On our 2nd day in the Biei District, we arrived in darkness, but as the first light crept in, we managed to catch glimpses of its beauty before heading on to Takushinkan. Snow-covered hills slowly revealed their form, offering just enough time to frame a few quiet, considered images. Takushinkan, opened in 1987, displays the work of world-famous landscape photographer Shinzo Maeda, whose vision has shaped how Hokkaido is understood through a lens.
Visiting the gallery was a grounding moment, reinforcing the value of patience, simplicity, and long-term commitment to place. Before leaving, we gathered for a group photo among the famous silver birch trees that surround the gallery, their pale trunks standing in crisp contrast against the snow. It was a fitting pause — part pilgrimage, part reminder of the photographic tradition we were walking into.
Hokkaido tour party with team leader Richard Young from NZPW
The next day we headed east toward the Lake Akan – Lake Kussharo area, where Hokkaido’s winter becomes quieter and more elemental. Vast frozen lakes, geothermal steam, and open horizons create scenes that demand restraint rather than spectacle. With little colour and few landmarks, compositions relied on balance, scale, and the subtle relationship between ice, water, and sky. The cold here felt deeper and more deliberate, slowing everything down — including how you think behind the camera. It’s a region that rewards patience and simplicity, offering photographs that are felt as much as they are seen.
Lake Kussharo
Next morning, we again arrived at Lake Kussharo in complete darkness the following morning, setting up quietly and waiting for the first hint of colour. When the light arrived, it didn’t disappoint — soft pinks and warm orange hues spread across the sky and reflected off the water. The calm was broken gently by morning wildlife moving across the lake, adding life and scale without disturbing the stillness. It was one of those rare mornings where light, landscape, and subject fall into place effortlessly. Moments like this remind you why early starts and frozen fingers are simply part of the job.
Lake Kussharo sunrise
The next day we ventured north toward the Shibetsu area and into the Notsuke Peninsula, home to the Narawara Nature Reserve. This is a harsh, exposed landscape where dead trees rise from snow and ice like skeletal forms, shaped by wind and salt. The conditions strip scenes back to their essentials, making composition an exercise in restraint rather than reaction. Ezo foxes and deer are abundant, moving quietly through the snow and adding life and scale to the stark environment. Photographing them demanded respect — long lenses, minimal movement, and patience over pursuit. It’s not an easy place to work, but the images earned here feel honest, grounded, and unmistakably Hokkaido.
The final day of the tour took us through Tsurui on the way back to the airport, a fitting conclusion to the journey. Here we witnessed the red-crowned cranes in action, their movements deliberate and graceful against the snow-covered fields. Watching and photographing them felt less like wildlife photography and more like observing a ritual that has played out for generations. Timing, patience, and restraint mattered more than speed or volume. It was the perfect full stop — a reminder that Hokkaido rewards those willing to slow down and let the subject come to them.
Red-Crowned Cranes
As the journey came to an end, what stayed with me most wasn’t just the images, but the experience of working slowly and deliberately in one of winter’s most uncompromising environments. Hokkaido demanded patience, respect, and a willingness to accept whatever conditions were handed to us — and it rewarded that approach with moments of quiet, lasting beauty. This was photography done properly, shaped as much by discipline and observation as by light and subject.
My sincere thanks go to Tsuyoshi Kato for his deep local knowledge and calm authority, and to Richard Young for his steady leadership and generous mentoring throughout the expedition. Their guidance elevated the experience well beyond a standard photographic tour. I left Hokkaido colder, tired, and better for it — with images earned the hard way and lessons that will stay with me long after the snow has melted.