It’s been years since I paddled for the first time through the wetlands of eastern Hokkaido, but I’ve never forgotten the sensation of gliding slowly across those marshes. I’d been meaning to get back on the water, to drift down one of Hokkaido’s rivers.
Last year in the summer, I found myself traveling through the northern reaches of the island. I’d heard that the Teshio River and its tributary, the Sarobetsu, offered calm waters ideal for canoeing. At the visitor center in the Sarobetsu wilderness, I made my inquiry. The staff member shook his head. No programs for tourists here. I might have better luck upstream in Nakagawa or Bifuka, where tour companies might operate.
Driving down south along the Teshio River, I checked into a guesthouse in Nakagawa. At the front desk, I asked about canoe experiences. The clerk’s response was curt: try the tourism association. It’s inside the town hall.
The next morning, on my way to the town hall, I passed by a campground. A small stream fed into the Teshio, and several canoes sat moored along the bank. I pulled out my phone and searched. The site described this as the town’s outdoor hub, offering canoe experiences.
Inside the management office, a staff member looked troubled as he explained. The stream-based program was pending a business permit. Not operational yet. The canoes on the shore weren’t available either.
So I ended up at the tourism association window after all. The woman behind the counter seemed slightly flustered, as if walk-in inquiries were rare.
“Can I try canoeing on the Teshio River here in town?”
“I don’t think so.”
“But I heard there’s a canoe port along the river.”
“There is, but there aren’t any programs or tours.”
“Then who uses it?”
“People who canoe down the river on their own.”
We were talking past each other. It became clear that there was no easy setup here for casual tourists.
In Bifuka, the next town over, things were much the same. No one at the gas station or the roadside rest stop seemed particularly knowledgeable. The phrase “canoe mecca” I’d seen online felt increasingly hollow.
Just as I was about to give up, studying the map, I suddenly recalled that this town, too, had a large canoe port on the banks of the Teshio River.
When I arrived, there was a proper launch site and a sign announcing an annual event held here. People did canoe here after all.
Three young men were relaxing by the water. Locals, they explained they’d been shuttling between points on the river — two paddling downstream, while one driving to the next launch, repeating the cycle. When I asked my questions, they exchanged glances.
“I don’t think there are any public tours on the Teshio.”
“If there’s anything, it’d be hiring a private guide.”
One of them grinned. “Why not just go down in your own canoe?”
“Wait — don’t you need a license or permit to put in on your own?”
They looked at each other and laughed out loud.
“Nah, it’s a river. All on you.”
I was startled. Here, the river is infrastructure. No different from riding a bike down the street — no license required.
In the early days of Hokkaido’s settlement, and even before that in the Ainu era, traveling up and down the Teshio River by small boat must have been the best — and indeed the only — means of transportation in this region. I had only ever thought of canoeing as a commercial outdoor sport. But for the people here, it was an essential way to immerse themselves in the great outdoors and to live in harmony with nature.
Embarrassed by my own assumptions, I felt my desire to get on the water intensify. Now I’m seriously considering buying a small canoe — just so I can paddle down that river myself.
∎