Freeride World Qualifier Diary: Part 2 - Kiroro 2*

Winter is in full swing in Japan, and the bushes that we whack our way through in the early season are slowly getting covered by a solid maritime snowpack. Everything you've ever heard about skiing here is true - each day out here is like living in a Matchstick Productions movie, a blur of slow motion faceshots in silent birch forests, steaming onsen water, slurping noodles in cosy izakayas with misty windows. This is how my species hibernates - sleep, ski, ramen, repeat.

The Japan Freeride series calendar has been announced with some new events this year, and one that catches my eye is the newly announced 2* competition in Kiroro, Hokkaido. In my 5 seasons skiing in Japan I’ve never once left Honshu, only exploring the Hakuba Valley and its well-known neighbours like Myoko, Madarao, and Nozawa Onsen. Even though Hokkaido is probably the most famous of Japan’s ski destinations, I’ve never had a good excuse to go up there and see if it lives up to the hype. But this is just the motivation I need, so I sign up to the comp and book ferry tickets from Niigata to Otaru.

The trusty Kei car - the engine of a lawnmower, but the spirit of a tank

Our tiny Kei car is loaded up with 2 snowboards, 3 pairs of skis, and 4 friends stoked for a Japanese road trip. As soon as we’re on the ferry, we wonder why we don’t do this every year. If you have a car, this is a super convenient, cheap and fun way to travel between the Hakuba area and Hokkaido. They have cheap and cosy capsule beds for the overnight trip - there’s also a decent cafeteria, a karaoke room (of course, this is Japan) and an open air onsen on the top deck. And since it seems that the boat is mostly for long distance truckers, the women’s onsen seems to be permanently empty (insert spa day emoji).

We dock in Otaru at 4am to fat flakes falling from the sky - our first taste of Hokkaido. It looks like it’s going to be a killer ski day. So we drive straight up to Kiroro, and after some rather odd route choices from Google maps and a quick nap in the plushy chairs at the Sheraton, we are ready to slay some deep pow and see what Hokkaido is all about.

Kiroro is best known for its deep snow, but it also has a reputation for being pretty flat. After a few hours in the resort, it seems like both those rumours are true. It’s a small but really fun resort, and they’ve put a lot of effort into their system of in-bounds tree-skiing gates in recent years, although the pitches are short with very long flat run-outs. Things get a bit more interesting with Kiroro’s sidecountry gates - one provides easy access from the top of the gondola to the summit of Mt Yoichi, and the other takes you to a fun zone with some steep faces, which is where the FWQ competition will take place.

We head over here to take a peek at the AK-B face, where we’ll be competing the next day. It’s an intimidating face - much steeper than we’re used to in Japan - not many cliffs but lots of chutes and spines (I’m guessing the AK stands for Alaska). I’m scoping a fun but technical line with two pretty good airs linked together with one of the spines in between. There is more fun to be had elsewhere in this zone, and we ski some mellow bowls with deep snow and get in some soul turns before the stress of competition day.

Scoping juicy AK spines in Kiroro

Unless you’re on a Sheraton budget, there isn’t much choice of accommodation in Kiroro. We’ve really struck gold with the Hopi Hills Farm, where guests stay in cosy yurts and enjoy delicious breakfast and coffee in the morning, and wood-fired pizza and home-made wine at night by the roaring fire in the farm house. The staff here are mostly international volunteers who are very friendly and willing to give us backcountry tips, or a tour of the barn where the farm animals live in winter - we meet a stern-looking ostrich, some ornery alpacas, cheeky Shetland ponies and some very sweet goats. And if you’ve ever dreamed of trying ski joring, (and let’s face it, everyone who’s ever seen a classic Warren Miller movie has) the staff might be able to make it happen.

Living our best yurt life at Hopi Hills Farm

We are well fed and well rested on competition morning, and thankfully not too hungover from the Ostrich Chardonnay, so we head up on the first chair with a perfect pink sunrise as a backdrop. Once again we have hit the jackpot with conditions, with the snow from the last storm deep and untouched but settled enough on the steeps that there’s very little danger of sliding. I've also been lucky with the bib draw - the women's ski category is running first and I'm 4th to start. With only three competitors running before me, there’s a high chance that I’ll be skiing untracked pow from top to bottom, with no bombed out landings to worry about. It’s every freerider’s dream.

It's a short hike to the top and before I know it I’m in the start gate. With no time to think, I’m off, and my line is totally untouched. I’m laying out big fast turns in deep pow, feeling good, and nail the first landing. Trying not to let my lizard brain take over, I tell myself to focus, and make my way to the top of the spine. Making tight turns, I spot a place to air off the end and commit to it, with snow sluffing off as I land, and make big wide turns in the run out. It's one of those runs where you feel like a freeride star. After all the tension leading up to this, the euphoria I feel when I get to the bottom is overwhelming, and I let out a massive howl, knowing I found my line and skied it the way I wanted. I make my way to the base, where my friends hand me a victory beer (it’s just after 9am).

That feeling when you finally don't come last in a freeride competition

I know I haven’t got the top spot (Sapporo local Miki Nakagawa has obviously taken care of that, with a massive mid-chute tree stump huck) and I’m trying not to get my hopes up too much, but I can’t stop thinking that my run might have been good enough to get me on the podium. The rest of the day goes by in a blur, taking fun in-bounds laps with old and new friends, while I try to suppress my secret pride. This feeling justifies all the stress, panic, preparation, and all the time, money and effort spent to compete in this event. The embarrassment of Revelstoke and the frustration of Hakuba are forgotten, and I’m reminded that I do belong here, I can hold my own amongst these pro skiers and international competitors.

At the awards ceremony, I make sure I have my bib to hand and my skis nearby, just in case I need to grab them for the podium photos. The manager of the resort takes to the stage to announce the prizes. 3rd place has gone to Anaïs Caradeux, a French ex-Olympic freestyle skier who is making the transition to freeride. Then, looking right at me, he announces ‘2nd place goes to our rider from the United Kingdom… of Sweden!’ The medal goes to Emma Bengtsson, another first-time competitor. I feel my face flush red; I thought I had it, and I'm halfway to the stage before I realise he isn’t talking about me. Tears sting my eyes as Miki and the other girls collect their medals and pose for the photographers. It’s hard to fight the disappointment that rises up as this rollercoaster of emotions runs out of track and plummets towards the ground.

Although I finished in 4th place, which I should be happy about, my competitor brain takes over and I have my first diva athlete moment, seeking out the judges and asking why I didn’t score higher. I don’t mean to complain, but it’s helpful to know where I could improve in the next comp.

Because the whole ethos behind freeriding is to have no rules, it can be hard to judge. Points are awarded for technique, control and fluidity, which are easily assessed, but a lot of the scoring is more subjective, with points for line difficulty, as well as air and style. So although the scoring system is the same for FWQ comps around the world, the judges aren’t necessarily looking for exactly the same thing. In this case, it seems like my choice of a technical line is what hurt me, with the judges setting more store by fluidity and simplicity.

I’m still proud of my line, and I’m not ashamed of my hurt feelings. As adult competitors, and especially adult women, it can sound strange to admit that we want to win - we don’t want to be seen crying like kids when we don’t get what we want, and no one wants to be a bad loser. But the same part of my brain that drives me to compete also drives me to win. There are so many benefits to competing - making new friends, skiing new places and gnarly faces, or just the rush of adrenaline you get from trying something different. But if I didn’t want to win, there would be no reason to keep coming back to compete, or to run to the gym at the end of a ski day when all I want to do is crack a beer with my friends and head to the onsen.

Society sends young women plenty of messages about how they should behave, and not being too ambitious is one of them. But when the competitive drive in women is normalised and fostered, we see results. Mikaela Shiffrin, Simone Biles, the US women’s soccer team - none of them got where they are without wanting to be number one. And these women admitting that they want to win send an important message to the young girls who look up to them - that it’s ok for women to be driven, to be hungry, to put in the work they need to succeed.