SHIRETOKO

We began our journey in Kushiro, on the eastern edge of Hokkaido. After landing, we visited the Kushiro City Crane Reserve, a sanctuary for the endangered Japanese red-crowned cranes. Even within the protected boundaries of the park, their presence held a quiet power. Graceful, slow-moving, otherworldly.

 

From there, we traveled to Lake Akan and checked into Tsuruga Yukunosato, a peaceful onsen ryokan by the lake. The moment that stayed with me most happened later that evening, in the rotenburo, the open-air bath just in front of the water.

It was quiet. Mist rising over the lake. The air cool against my face, the water warm and enveloping. In front of me, Akanko stretched into the fog, framed by mountains that seemed to hold ancient memory. I found myself reflecting on the Ainu people, the Indigenous tribes of Hokkaido. Earlier that day, we had visited Ainu Kotan, a small village where we met local artisans and community leaders. There was something profound in meeting the Indigenous people of Japan—a culture so deeply rooted in the land, and yet historically marginalized.

As someone with Japanese ancestry but born and raised outside the country, moments like this stir something hard to explain. A recognition, yes—but also a tension. I felt deeply connected to the land, to the rituals, to the people—and yet I was also aware of my distance. A guest in the country of my ancestors. It’s a duality I’ve learned to live with. In that bath, with the lake and the fog and the weight of history around me, it felt almost like a homecoming, even if just for a moment.

 

On our way out of Akan, we stopped at Mount Iō (Iozan), an active sulfur volcano not far from the lake. The smell of sulfur hit immediately—pungent, raw, unmistakable. Steam hissed from vents in the ground, yellow crusts of minerals forming on the earth like scars. It was otherworldly, almost unsettling. We learned that this site was mined for sulfur during WWII, and I found myself reflecting on how a place so naturally volatile was once drawn into the machinery of war. The mountain felt alive and indifferent—still erupting, still breathing, long after those histories passed through. Another reminder that the land holds more than we often realize.

 

Next, we passed by Lake Mashu, a crater lake known for its clarity—but that day, it was lost in thick fog. The view was completely obscured, yet I didn’t feel disappointed. The mystery was the point. There’s a kind of reverence in not seeing everything.

After a brief stop in Shari, we arrived at the Shiretoko Peninsula. Wild and windswept, it felt like the edge of the world. We stayed at Kita Kobushi Shiretoko Hotel & Resort, where the sea framed our windows. Each morning began in the rooftop onsen, steam rising into the cold air, the view dissolving into mist. It felt like stepping into a dream.

 

We spent two days on the water, boarding boats from Rausu Port to witness the orca migration. There’s something deeply humbling about scanning the horizon for signs of life in such a vast, indifferent sea. Eventually, they appeared—dorsal fins in the distance, moving with a kind of quiet confidence. They came and went on their own terms.

But the moment that truly stayed with me came unexpectedly.
One morning, we saw hundreds of black seabirds grazing the surface of the ocean.
They moved as one—gliding just inches above the water, their wings tracing invisible lines.
No noise. No drama. Just rhythm and presence.
It felt like watching time itself move.

 

After Shiretoko, we traveled inland to Tokachigawa, stopping at Ikeda Wine Castle along the way. The land grew flatter, more open. We stayed at Seijyakubow Onsen, home to one of Japan’s only moor hot springs. The water was deep amber, rich in plant essence—almost like bathing in a forest. It felt different than any other onsen I’ve experienced. Older, wilder, more feminine somehow.

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Traveling through Hokkaido as a Japanese American gave the experience a different kind of depth. I wasn’t simply seeing my mother land —I was tracing the threads of something older in myself. At times, I felt deeply at home. At others, I felt like a respectful outsider. That space in between—of remembering and reintroducing yourself at the same time—was where the most meaningful moments happened.

This trip wasn’t about checking off destinations.
It was about listening.
To land, to fog, to birds, to silence.
To the voices of my ancestors and the feeling of returning to a place that was never entirely mine, yet somehow always known.

The photographs I brought back are not about the places.
They’re about the quiet in-between.
About stillness. Presence.
And the feeling of standing between two identities— rooted, and reaching.

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