Some trips are meticulously planned months in advance—detailed itineraries, carefully packed bags, reservations locked in. And then there are the trips that happen in a frenzy, fueled by nothing but a weather forecast and the burning desire to be exactly where the snow is deepest. This is the story of the latter.
We were in Whistler, watching the forecasts light up. Japan was about to get buried—storm after storm stacking up over Hakuba. We didn’t hesitate. Flights were booked on the spot, skis were mounted the next morning, and bags were stuffed full of avalanche gear, layers, and anything else we could grab in the rush. With ski roller bags packed to bursting, we lashed RUX 70Ls onto the bags for an airport sprint, weaving through the terminal to catch our last-minute flight over the Pacific.
What followed was a blur. Bullet trains slicing through the snowy countryside. Deep, cold-smoke powder every single day. Onsens steaming away the exhaustion of nonstop skiing. Plates of sushi, bowls of ramen, whiskey, and crisp Japanese beer to cap off each night. And snow—so much snow. Record-breaking snow.
Every morning started with a dig-out session, carving our way to the rental van through walls of fresh powder. The roads were like tunnels, banks towering above us, a white maze of possibility. Chairlifts rose above the storm, trenches dug out beneath them to keep them running. And then, the descents—pure weightlessness. Every turn swallowed in bottomless, feather-light powder. Every drop-in a perfect justification of the mad dash to get here.
There’s something special about a trip like this. The spontaneity, the uncertainty, the raw chase for the best snow on Earth. No plans, no guarantees—just trust in the forecast and a willingness to send it. And in the end, that’s what made this mission perfect.
We came for the snow, and Japan delivered.
