Chill thrills in Japan

Forget a fancy wellness retreat, writes Justin Meneguzzi. Sticking a pole in a hole in the ice is therapeutic and rewarding.

Try your hand at fishing on a frozen lake

‘Watch out for that big crack. You might fall through,’’ Tek Gurung says, as he steps over a jagged line in the ice on a vast frozen lake. Gurung seems nonplussed as he continues his way over the white expanse, while I take a cautiously large step over the crack and follow him across Lake Kanayama, a popular ice-fishing spot in central Hokkaido’s Furano prefecture.

Gurung tells me he usually works as a whitewater rafting guide in summer, when the mountains are tickled pink by vast fields of wild lavender. Biting Siberian winds arrive in November, delivering northern Japan’s famous snow dumps and delighting ski fanatics, so Gurung pivots to teaching ice fishing in winter.

Snow has always been a challenge for Hokkaido. On the drive to Lake Kanayama, we pass houses that have partially collapsed under a thick belt of snow. Traditionally, hunting was difficult as game burrowed underground or hibernated. During those leaner months, Hokkaidans turned to ice fishing for sustenance.

Ice fishing, known as ‘‘wakasagi tsuri’’, has evolved into a cultural pastime anyone can enjoy if they are willing to brave the cold. After back-toback days of snowboarding on deep powder snow at Club Med Tomamu, I decide to give my glutes a day off and try my hand with a fishing rod.

Light snow is falling as we trek a few hundred metres to the middle of the lake to where a temporary fishing village has popped up. Two large metal huts stand alongside a makeshift kitchen housed inside a yellow geodesic tent. In the first hut I can make out the blurred shapes of a dozen

Japanese men sitting like hunched statues.

I am ushered into the second hut where I find two rows of makeshift timber benches. Spaced evenly below the benches are a dozen dinner-plate sized holes that have been drilled about 60cm down into the ice. Waiting for us are toy-sized fishing poles, prepared with three baited hooks.

Gurung walks me through the basics of fishing, which boils down to ‘‘if the line starts dancing, pull hard’’. We are fishing for wakasagi, a species of tiny fish known as smelts that are roughly the same size as your little finger.

Over the next hour, with the world narrowed down to a single hook in front of me, it is an intensely meditative experience. I can’t help but think of the fancy hotels and retreats offering newage wellness programmes, yet one of humanity’s oldest pastimes and inventions – the humble fishing rod – still manages to hold its own.

My thoughts are swept away as my fishing line starts dancing and, one after the other, I pull wakasagi out of the icy water.

Gurung disappears with our catch and shortly returns with a bowl of flash fried tempura wagasaki, which he has dusted in a green pepper powder. They make a deliciously crunchy snack to munch on.