Niseko Powder Connection | skiing | Japan | Steve Ogle

"Whooo! Hooo! Whoo! Hoo-oo-gag-ack-gag."  "Shut your mouth!" my mind screams, as my lungs gasp for air. Too late - I'm already inhaling mouthfuls of the snow billowing up from the ground. With nothing before me but a calm sea of untouched powder, I race downhill. Every turn leaves a deep trough in my wake as I silently plow through the flakes, ducking under the low branches of silver birch trees. The forest is open here, and the hill rolls gently between steep sections. I let gravity take hold as I launch my skis off buried stumps, flying high into the air and landing on an embracing cushion of deep fluff. I yelp. I whoop. I spit out snow. I smile.  All around me, skiers and boarders emerge from the woods. Caked in white, faces plastered with ear-to-ear grins, they shuffle back to the gondola for another run. We exchange thumbs-up and high fives, the international symbols of joy on a powder day. Suddenly, the Japanese word I need pops into my head, and I yell it out, pole raised in triumph: "Yuki!"

The other riders look at each other for a second before bursting into laughter. The sight of a gaijin screaming the Japanese word for snow must be hilarious. More fives and thumbs ensue. Soon, everyone is yelling "Yuki!" while sumo-size flakes cascade from the sky.

Hokkaido, Japan's northernmost island, lies just off the main island, Honshú, though it might as well be a world apart. Take off from the endless metropolis of Tokyo, and in less than two hours, you glide in for a landing over white forests. Space, a costly premium throughout Japan, is abundant in Hokkaido, a mostly wild territory the size of Austria that is full of mountains, rugged coastlines, volcanoes, and forests. The population density is fewer than 70 people per square kilometer, so there's more than enough room to stretch out.

And then there's the snow.

Hemmed in by the Pacific, the Sea of Japan, and the Sea of Okhotsk, Hokkaido is in the path of every type of winter weather pattern imaginable. Cold air sweeping down from Russia loads up on ocean moisture, reaches the island, and unleashes more than 15 feet of snowfall annually. In the mountains, the snow dumps in relentless waves, hiding the sun for weeks at a time. Because winter is so cold, the flakes that fall are dry and light - perfect for skiing. Hokkaido's residents have known the sport for nearly a century, thanks to an Austrian army officer named Theodor van Lerch, who taught skiing here in 1911. Small hills and resorts jut out from the main city, Sapporo, site of the 1972 Winter Olympics, which was the event that transformed the enjoyable regional pastime of skiing into full-fledged national mania in Japan.

"In the 70-meter ski jump, Japan won all three medals," recalls Osamu "the Green Lantern" Yamazaki, Japan's first Olympic mogul skier. "It was the beginning of the boom. From that day on, every [parent] put their kids into a ski program. … When I was young, almost everybody skied. You got back from school, you went skiing. You even walked the dog on skis. In Hokkaido, skiing plus snow [equals] life."

Over the years, Yamazaki's adopted hometown of Niseko has been the secret spot for Hokkaido's dedicated skiers. Just two hours southwest of Sapporo by train or car, and framed by the imposing face of the majestic Mount Yotei volcano, Niseko is Hokkaido's answer to Steamboat, Colorado, a haven for deep powder and great tree skiing. With an expanding crew of international ski bums flocking into town, Niseko, and its snow, is growing in legendary status.

AS THE BUS CLIMBS mountain passes on its way from the New Chitose Airport, outside Sapporo, the snowbanks rise along with it. What started out as a one-foot bank has quickly grown to two, and then three, then five feet, until it towers past the height of the bus, and the highway resembles a ­bobsled track. Flashing LED lights suspended above the road keep vehicles on track, but the rush of flakes is the only sight visible in the headlights. "You ever seen so much snow, mate?" asks a clearly intimidated Australian in the seat next to mine. I can't say I have, and I'm from Canada. As we pull into the main parking lot at Niseko Grand Hirafu Resort, the largest of the resorts that make up Niseko, I get a sense of just how much snow I'm seeing. Cars are indistinguishable white mounds. The only houses that aren't totally buried are the ones with full-size construction loaders parked out front. The snowbanks by the sidewalks are easily two stories tall.

Spilling down half of a dormant volcano's slope, Niseko is actually four separate ski resorts that are linked together by lifts. Hirafu, geared mostly toward foreign tourists, offers a wide variety of terrain, including spacious ­sidewalk-smooth groomers and acres of pristine forested powder stashes. I'm joined by Steve Ogle, an outdoor photographer from British Columbia, and his friend Mark "Parm" Parminter, and we're following the advice of Ian MacKenzie, the Scottish owner of Niseko Powder Connection, the tour company that arranged our trip. We cut to the left of the Hirafu gondola on our first run and dash around the trees in Miharashi, a vast area of mellow lines and untracked turns in wide-open birch forests. I remark how the bushes­ look almost like trees. "That's because they are trees," says Ogle. "We're just skiing around the treetops. The rest is below." A chorus of "Sweet!" parts from our lips, and we make our way over to Niseko Higashi-yama, the next resort on the volcano.

Anchored by the giant Niseko Higashiyama Prince Hotel, which resembles a futuristic moon base rather than a rustic ski lodge, Higashiyama has few crowds on this stormy day, and we're free to play amid the steeps near the bottom. Ogle snaps frames as Parm airs 360s off jumps into endless soft landings. I'm content to thrash in the shin-deep snow, having not skied powder like this in years.

Breaking for lunch at a small restaurant, buried and identifiable only by the flags poking up from the snowbanks, we're treated to our first taste of Japanese ski-hill cuisine, and we find that Japan's obsession with quality food remains, thankfully, intact. Deicing our bodies, we help ourselves to steaming mugs of green tea and dig into hearty seafood ramen soups. Fresh clams, prawns, and mountain mushrooms soak in a fragrant miso broth. "This is how it should be done," I say. Ogle and Parm nod in agreement as we bow profusely, utter many arigatos, and then head back into the swirling madness.

DESPITE THE GREAT SNOW, Japan's ski industry is in a nosedive. While the country couldn't open enough resorts during the economic boom of the 1980s, the past 15 years of recession (which has just ended) took a substantial toll. Add in an aging population that is less drawn to adventure sports, and you have a drop in ski visits. "Most resorts in Japan are losing money because of demographics," says Keith Rogers, Yamazaki's roommate. "Lots will tank because they just aren't economical." A Canadian who has lived in Japan for a decade, Rogers now sells real estate in Niseko, though mainly to Australians and expats living in Asia. It's the arrival of foreigners like Rogers, Mac­Kenzie, and their clients that has saved Niseko from being mothballed.

Australians and New Zealanders make up the bulk of gaijin skiers and snowboarders in Niseko, so much so that English is widely spoken, but there are plenty of tour companies promoting the resort worldwide. A cheap yen and the unique cultural experience help to sell this place, but it's the powder that draws people in the end. Two years ago, an Australian friend sent me a photo of herself skiing in chest-deep snow amid Niseko's trees. I was hooked, and I started planning my visit. Every person who travels here returns with tales of the fluffiest, lightest, most abundant snow they've ever skied. It's a powder hound's frosted dream.

By our third day, the sun has emerged and the temperature is up. Mount Yotei's snow-dipped cone is visible from every turn on the hill. Snowy mushrooms high in trees grow heavy, cracking limbs under their weight and crashing to the ground in noisy explosions. On one run, I hear a crack, turn my head, and get blasted by a wave of snow from one of these tree bombs. The next day grows cold, and everything ices over, making for some rough riding. Lunch drags on, and skiing doesn't seem so appealing. Leading, as always, Yamazaki turns to the group and says, "Okay. Onsen time." Heads nod more than willingly at the Green Lantern's decisive call.

Japanese après ski is all about the ­onsen, natural volcanic hot springs where one soaks one's weary bones. The onsen routine is straightforward: Purchase a towel, ticket, and Asahi beer from the vending machine. Separate the sexes. Strip off all clothing and jewelry, sit on stool, and wash the body thoroughly with soap, shampoo, and hot water. Place the tiny modesty towel over, um, one's modest bits, and enter a steaming outdoor pool. Sit on a rock, crack open the beer, and allow muscles to relax in the crisp mountain air. When satisfied, get dressed, find the nearest bed, and nap like a dog.

Serious hunger tends to follow a day filled with skiing and soaking, so Niseko serves up its fair share of Japanese delicacies. Small restaurants, ranging from expensive sushi places to smoky barbecue dives and lively izakaya (casual bars), sooth growling bellies. Whether savoring a crisp dish of prawn tempura, glistening raw tuna belly, or grilled chunks of Australian lamb, you'll find that everything is fresh - and reasonably priced for a ski town.

For the truly budget-conscious, a few hundred yen (less than $10) can get you a fully prepared meal of fish, rice, tuna triangles, and a drink at the Seiko Mart, Hokkaido's answer to 7-Eleven. By far the most happening place in the village, Seiko's aisles are usually packed with riders defrosting after a few hours of night skiing. In fact, so much of Niseko Hirafu's terrain is lit up like Yankee Stadium after sunset that you could be slicing fresh turns under a full moon until nine p.m.

By the fifth night, we are growing restless. The skiing has been great, but the deep, epic turns we came for have yet to arrive. Someone suggests we drink until it snows. Nodding to the United Nations of ski bums spread around his chalet, Yamazaki raises a hearty mug of sake above his head and declares, "Yuki!" Passing the mug, each skier raises it to the air, takes a slug, and repeats, "Yuki." Magically, fat flakes begin descending within the hour, and excited legs hurry off to beds.

Standing atop a pitch in the Miharashi forest the next morning, my skis point toward a freshly made bed of white snowy linen. According to the resort, just over a foot has fallen, but here in the trees, there is always more - more than two feet in spots where the wind generously deposited the flakes. Yamazaki pushes off first, his compact frame in the bright green jacket disappearing quickly in a trail of swirling flakes floating in his wake. We all quickly dash off after him, muffled whump-whumps of turns the only sound besides yelps of pleasure. The snow's surface caresses my shins, then knees, and finally my waist, as each turn bobs my body in and out of an airy powder bath. Snow sprays over my head, into my mouth, and I laugh out loud. Moving is light and effortless … perfect powder skiing.