Travel Logs Exploring the Vast Heart of Tokachi, Hokkaido

Journey Theme: A Journey of Renewal—Surrendering to Hokkaido’s Vast Nature

 

Hokkaido has always felt different from the rest of Japan. The spirit of its frontier history—cutting through forests, cultivating the land, building a life in a harsh climate—still lives strongly in its people and scenery.

 

 

Among its many regions, the Tokachi Plain stands out as the purest expression of Hokkaido’s abundance. Endless farmland, crystal-clear rivers, free-grazing animals, and a sky that never seems to end.

 

Listening to the wisdom of the locals, traveling across wide-open landscapes, and tasting the blessings of the land sharpen your senses in unexpected ways. Focusing on the ice during curling, learning the philosophy behind pasture-based dairy farming, and casting a fly into a pristine river—all of these moments help you sync your breath with nature’s rhythm.

 

Here in Hokkaido, surrendering to the vastness of the land becomes a kind of restoration.
This is where a journey toward finding your balance begins.

 

Day 1

 

It’s a not-too-early, autumn morning arrival at Tokyo Haneda International Airport for a 10:50 a.m. flight to Tokachi-Obihiro Airport. It’s still fairly warm in Tokyo, but the word is that snow has already fallen in the mountains around Obihiro. The flight is only about an hour and a half—just enough time to flip through the inflight magazine and linger over an article on wheat and bakeries in the Tokachi area. A beautiful photo of a vast field of golden wheat glowing in the morning sun, the shadows of tall mountains beyond, has me eager to get there.

 

At the airport, I’m met by Kakeru Arai, my guide for the coming days. It’s mid-day, and he has selected a local restaurant that showcases the region’s outstanding produce, and particularly from its important organic farms.

 

Driving though the rural countryside, I could almost be back home in the northern plains of the U.S. where I grew up. The silos look the same, the tractors are the same size (big), and many come from familiar U.S. manufacturers. Graceful white shapes appear now and then in the fields: migrating swans from Siberia, some of which will stay here during the coming winter, while others will continue south to Honshu Island.

 

The ruler-straight roads also feel American-. These are rare in the mountainous, densely populated rest of Japan. Public transportation is limited out here, and the distances are long, so it’s clear why all of our travel will be by car.

 

We arrive at Hiyori Farm and Table a neat little building in the middle of nowhere (but about a 30-minute drive from the airport). Some of the day’s harvested produce is displayed outside, while a solitary goat roped up nearby keeps the grass trimmed. Inside is a family-run restaurant where diners choose from delightful sets of porcelain and earthenware dishes, loading them from a buffet of organic vegetables grown at the Ogasawara Farm. The dishes are prepared in simple, flavorful ways that highlight their natural freshness—including onigiri rice balls made with local rice, eggs, and soup.

 

The seasonal dishes, made with ingredients harvested at the peak of freshness, make for a great mental and physical start of the journey.

 

 

 

 

Warmed up, I’m ready to head into Obihiro to try something I’ve always found fascinating to watch but never imagined I’d actually do: curling.

 

Obihiro is one of the most important centers of curling in Japan. With long winters and dry air that help maintain ideal ice conditions, curling has become a real community activity. Schools have curling teams, there are active curling clubs, and people of all ages—from children to adults—get out to slide the granite stones down the ice . So it was fun not only to have the chance to try it myself, but to in a place that has really embraced the sport.

 

Curlplex Obihiro is one of the few places in the country where anyone can get on the ice and learn how to slide the stones—and what all that frantic sweeping actually does. Our coach is Fukuhiro Ohno, a three-time World Championship athlete now in his hometown teaching while still competing.

 

We don helmets, knee pads and special shoes—one (the left) with a sliding sole, the right with a gripper sole of soft rubber. Before we start, one of the staff sprinkles water up and down the length of the sheet to create the pebbled texture curling requires. Unlike ice hockey or figure skating, Ohno says, curling needs ice that isn’t perfectly smooth.

 

First, we learn to simply get used to walking on the ice, with a cover on the sliding sole. Then we take off the cover and get back on the ice, “Right foot first!” Ohno warns. The left foot is slippery, the right isn’t, and the sensation is bizarre. I skated as a kid, so I instinctively want a sharp edge underfoot.

 

After a few tries with triangular braces for balance, we begin to understand the sliding start: pushing off with the right foot and sliding as we glide forward on the left foot. At first I’m an uncoordinated mess, but after a few attempts, and with Ohno’s instructions, things start to slow down and I start to feel the rhythm of preparation building to a balanced glide.

 

We then try the stones—heavier than expected—followed by instruction in rotating the handle a few degrees to the left or right to put a turn on the throw.

 

Once we’re no longer entirely awkward, Ohno grins: “Want a little competition?” Absolutely. We play in teams of two, one sliding the stone and one sweeping in front of it to reduce friction and extend the glide. My last throw has a respectable curl, although I don’t hit my opponent’s stone or even win the round. Even so, experiencing that little bit of control on the direction of the stone was pretty rewarding. It’s not a fast sport, so I really felt like I was one with my stone as it slid down the ice, helped by my teammate’s sweeping, and gently curved a bit to the right.

 

Later on, Arai explains that he likes to include curling in the early stages of his tours to help with team-building. Curling requires cooperation, communication—and, getting used to being on the ice adds a bit of vulnerability for his guests. The slow pace and shared focus of curling turns strangers into friends quickly. While our group was already friends, we’d continue to come back to this experience as we continued our journey.

 

 

 

 

Night arrives early; a few snowflakes drift in from the distant mountains, and it’s time for a good post-curling dinner. In most of Japan, yatai are outdoor, mobile food stands. Here, at the Kita no Yatai in downtown Obihiro, they are a series of tiny indoor restaurants, each seating perhaps ten people. We visit Enjin, where chef Takuichi Takagi somehow produces extraordinary food from what looks like a single burner in his tiny kitchen corner.

 

We try Ezo shika tataki from a deer Takagi-san shot and prepared himself. He uses exclusively local, organic ingredients, including those from the farm of Masurao Orikasa, who happens to pop in. It’s a pleasure to eat some great meat and vegetables in the presence of the people who actually made those delicious flavors possible.

 

I try some of the local wines, made with the addition of wild grape—slightly tart, excellent with venison). With the cozy U-shaped counter, conversation flows naturally. Soon we’re chatting with Orikasa about his products, and are joined by a ski-jump enthusiast couple from Nagano who have come to Hokkaido to attend some competitions.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Day 2

 

The Tokaichi Plain is vast—about 3,600 square kilometers (1,400 square miles). Farms here are correspondingly large, averaging 24 hectares, compared to Hokkaido’s average of 17.41 and the national average of just 1.57. Our first stop today is a dairy farm—and it’s an impressive and prosperous one.

 

Tokachi Shinmura Farm is home to some 110 cows that wander fairly freely across the large farm, as well as 60 pigs. Owner Hirotaka Shinmura is the fourth generation farming here; his family came from Toyama Prefecture.

 

 

 

We walk along a small stream on the farm, its banks groomed by a few curious goats, to look at Shinmura-san’s pigs. They’ve just been fed, and they are squabbling with a pair of horses over some hay.

 

He looks up at a line of trees, some of them dead. “The pigs strip the bark which kills the trees,” he says, “but we live with it. New trees will take their place. The cows also feed on lower branches, so our trees on the property are all neatly trimmed and healthy. I try to keep a natural balance”

 

 

 

 

Shinmura Farm began free-range pasturing of the cows in 1994, following Shinmura’s studies both in school, and outside Japan. “We want to produce food that makes people feel healthier,” he says. For that to happen, our cows and pigs need to be healthy, too. A stress-free environment, good soil, good grass—everything is connected. Only when those conditions align can we create truly good milk and meat.”

 

With the animals grazing freely, the vast farmland looks like a park, with deep green fields framed by windrows of trees in autumn colors. I sense a more natural relationship between people, the animals and nature, one that is very different from more modern, mechanized farming.

 

Up the road, but still on Shinmura’s property, is a small hotel, sauna and activity center featuring cheerful cow motifs (including a T-shirt completely covered in Holstein cows). “We rent out the whole place to just one group at a time. People can barbeque our pork products, enjoy a sauna, and then sleep down below,” Shinmura says. “They often wake up with cows outside their window.”

 

I try the sauna myself—wood-fired—and perched on cow-pattered towels, enjoy a relaxing steam as I look out over what seems to be the biggest sky in Japan. I was already feeling pretty relaxed after sampling some of Shinmura’s clotted cream and milk syrup and our stroll across the property. Now I just let my imagination take me out across the vast landscape, past the grazing cows and the rolling fields, the mountains standing in a long row to my left. I feel a real closeness with the natural world.

 

 

 

 

Warmed up and relaxed, I’m ready for some cold water. This region is home to some of Japan’s clearest rivers, and our guide Arai is an expert flyfishing instructor.

 

We drive through the woods to the Otofuke River, a pristine setting despite being part of the city. We get into some chest waders (ones big enough for my oversize feet) and wander along small feeder streams to the river.

 

There are bears in Japan, of course, so we have bells on and bear spray ready. We also know that, as a group that will be talking as we walk, we are reducing the chance of startling one of the big beasts. This knowledge and preparation actually deepens the engagement with nature.

 

Stepping into the river, I find the bed is wonderfully slick. I’m suddenly very aware of the flow of water around my legs, and raise my concentration to keep from slipping. I do a few practice casts while Arai rigs a nymph. He soon has a good-sized rainbow on the line, which he kindly hands over to me to retrieve. It’s a beauty, and he assures me there are bigger ones out there.

 

Fly fishing is intriguing because it can be hypnotic: watching for fish rising, noting what insects were in the air and around the water, reading the current, and trying to predict where the big ones might be waiting. I work on my delivery of the fly and line in just the right place. I’m watching the flow of the river, but slowing the flow of my thoughts. It’s very refreshing and time passes in a quiet rhythm.

 

The fishing, of course, is catch and release, ensuring enjoyment for future fishing folk as well. To be honest, the trout were too beautiful to imagine cooking them anyway. Japan offers a surprising number of places like this, where you can forget about controlling nature, but instead flow with it and respect it—even feel like a part of it. Otofuke provides a range of rivers ideal for fly fishing, from small streams to wide rivers, with several different target species to pursue. No wonder, Arai tells me, that it’s considered one of Japan’s prime fly fishing destinations.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Day 3

 

My final stop was at Bito Laboratory, an expansive operation run by Koichi Bito. This is a farm that really illustrates the vast land of Tokachi, immense spaces unknown in agriculture areas almost anywhere else in Japan. Bito Laboratory, is a prime example of how the farm sizes in Hokkaido enable agricultural operations on a scale beyond that offered by farmland in other areas of the country. A genial, soft-spoken man in a nifty set of coveralls (his company’s logo won a Japan Good Design award), he greets us in a large building before a towering German-made combine.

 

 

 

He shows us storerooms filled with the earthy smell of potatoes. “We can store them here for a few years,” he explains. “Tokachi is so dry that we use a sprinkler system to keep the humidity right.” Bito also has snow chambers, rooms filled with stored snow to slowly mature the potatoes. They don’t freeze, instead becoming increasingly sweet. Outside, he leads us to the adventurous part of the tour. Hitched to a venerable John Deere tractor is a wagon, outfitted with rows of seats and a speaker system. Donning a headset, Bito heads out into the fields.

 

 

 

 

“One hundred thirty years ago, this was all ancient forest,” he says as we gently bounce across an already-harvested field. “My family originally came from Gifu Prefecture, and I’m the fourth generation here. I often think about how much work they had to do—cutting trees, pulling roots—for me to farm here.” He shakes his head. “It’s really amazing what my ancestors accomplished. The farming we do today is the result of everything that they built and passed down to me.”

 

Carrying forward that pioneering spirit, Bito has accomplished quite a bit himself. He embraces efficient and innovative farming practices, rotating his crops based on the soil conditions, and continually tries new things. He grows potatoes, naga imo (something like a long yam), wheat, buckwheat, corn, apples and other crops. He also sells finished products, and even recently began a winery.

 

 

 

 

As we wrap up with my promise to someday visit the winery, I reflect on what these last few days have taught me: the fresh flavors, the unique activities I tried, the immense sense of space; the feeling of being from somewhere wholly different—not just from the rest of Japan and the world, but even from other parts of Hokkaido.

 

It’s a big country up here, a place I found very soothing, very calming. Maybe it was sliding that curling stone across the ice, or gently setting a fishing fly on the pristine water, but I am grateful for the chance to pull back from everyday worries and just sink into some enchanting moments. I hope to come back again, maybe with more time to seek out new adventures, new chances to surrender to the fields and skies, the delicious flavors, the wonders of nature—to just relax and refresh.

 

 

Links

 

Destination Tokachi（Guiding and Tour Coordination）