Kate Webster When I think of Hokkaido, I used to imagine snow-blanketed landscapes and steaming bowls of ramen under a wintry sky. But summer—what locals call the “green season”—offered me something far more intimate, a journey that brought me closer to the land, its people, and the quiet wisdom that lives in the spaces between.
I began in Tokachi, a region that breathes agriculture. The land here is rich, generous and alive, and walking across the golden fields with a local guide felt like slipping into rhythm with the earth itself. The landscape stretched out in all directions, vast and open, yet full of subtle detail if you slowed down enough to notice.
It began with a visit to a local farm to learn about the local produce and how important agriculture was to this area. Stood in the corn field learning how to harvest the best of the corn cobbs, my hunger overtook me and immediately munched into the sweet and juicy cobb I had just plucked. I was meant to save this to be boiled as an addition to my lunch, but I couldn’t resist. By the time I sat down at the tables set up right there in the fields it was too late. My fresh corn had been devoured.
Adventure in the warmer weather
The next morning began on the water. We launched inflatable rafts onto the Tokachi River, which flowed gently beneath us under a brilliant blue sky. The current was mostly calm, perfect for soaking in the scenery, with only a few small rapids offering a refreshing splash and just enough excitement to lift us into laughter. But the real thrill came not from the water, but from above: an eagle suddenly soared overhead, circling with slow, confident arcs. Later, we spotted a crane standing motionless on the riverbank, a silhouette of grace and stillness against the reeds.
Drifting along with the rhythm of the river, I found myself easing into the flow of Hokkaido’s summer – quiet, clear, and full of life.
From water to wheels, we swapped rafts for bikes and followed the river inland. Our route meandered through a farming village, where the fields stretched endlessly in every direction and the landscape carried the scent of earth and crop. Despite the heat of the day, the ride was surprisingly cool as the breeze met my face as we pedalled past rows of vegetables and quiet homes, the wind like a secret blessing.
Immersed in Ainu culture
From Tokachi, we headed deeper into Hokkaido’s cultural roots, to Biratori, home to the Ainu people. This wasn’t just a history lesson; it was a living, breathing culture. In Nibutani, I walked through the sacred Ior Forest, guided by Ainu hosts whose knowledge of the land was humbling. Here, the forest isn’t a backdrop—it’s a relative, a teacher, a memory keeper.
We gathered later for a meal prepared with traditional Ainu ingredients like wild vegetables, served under the sloping roof of a Chise, a traditional Ainu house. The warmth of the fire, the sound of language I didn’t speak, and the intricate beauty of hand-carved crafts on display, it all lingered with me long after the last bite.
A traditional onsen stay
Staying at Biratori Onsen Yukara, I experienced a different kind of tradition. My room was pure simplicity with tatami mats, sliding screens, and a view of the forest. The onsen soothed away any fatigue, and soaking in the mineral-rich water felt like returning to something ancient and essential.
City rhythm, Hokkaido soul
Our final stop was Sapporo, a city that balances its natural surroundings with polished ease. At Keio Plaza Hotel Sapporo, I traded my yukata for something more cosmopolitan, but the connection to Hokkaido’s heart didn’t end. The restaurants here focus on seasonal produce, many ingredients sourced from the very regions I’d just explored. Even in the city, the land speaks.
What stayed with me most from this journey wasn’t a single moment, but a feeling of being connected to something older, slower, and deeply rooted. Hokkaido in summer is not just a destination; it’s an invitation to breathe, to listen, and to remember that the land holds stories—if you take the time to hear them.