As the light dimmed over Sōya Bay, the town itself seemed practically vacant. In this part of Japan, there was none of the near-constant, throbbing energy that permeates a city like Tokyo. There were no bamboo forests or blossoming sakura or roving gangs of spotted deer, either. Instead, some teens squatted on side streets, grilling meat on miniature charcoal grills, and cracking cans of beer as cars intermittently passed by.
It was this past May, and like pretty much every North American traveler eager to exploit a depressed yen and the ballooning post-COVID tourism industry, I’d decided to take a trip to Japan. And I’d found the sheer glut of information—and especially the recent explosion of TikTok and Instagram round-ups of things-to-do—had been a bit overwhelming. And sort of samey. Everyone seemingly had recommendations for some “little-known” izakaya, or hole-in-the-wall ramen shop, or tucked-away video game cafe, effectively spoiling the very quality of obscurity that was the essence of their charm. But with a few idle days in the middle of an otherwise jam-packed itinerary, I decided to go somewhere that I hadn’t heard about from a listicle, or Instagram reel, or Parts Unknown episode, but from a map.
So I picked a point—the furthest, most northern point—and went there.
Photos by John Semley
“Why do you want to go to Wakkanai?” Hajime, an exceptionally friendly barman at a dive in Sapporo asked me, the night before I struck out. I shrugged, and he laughed, because in Japanese, Wakkanai sounds a lot like wakannai, which translates colloquially to, “I don’t know.” Anyway, it was true; I didn’t really have a clear picture of why I wanted to make the trip. It was just…there. And Hajime-san’s mix of confusion and disbelief only encouraged me.
Here’s what I did: Starting in Tokyo, I followed the eastern edge of Honshu as it curved north, then leapfrogged across the Tsugaru Strait and onto the island of Hokkaido. I curved back around a big bay, then cut north to Sapporo. From there, the Soya Limited Express runs a once-a-day-return trip for ¥14,000 (or $97 USD, one way) through the rural landscape of northern Hokkaido. I jumped on that, though I found the “Express” tag a bit of a misnomer; we’re not talking about one of those high-speed Shinkansen bullet trains that can blast you from Kyoto to Tokyo in a few hours, as exurban landscapes and glimpses of Mt. Fuji whip past. It’s more a steady trundle, though the 60-mile-per-hour ka-chunk-ka-chunk excursion acclimatizes you to the slower, practically glacial, speed of life in Japan’s far north.
Five hours on a (relatively) slow moving train, grinding across a (relatively) dull landscape cast in the dewey green-ish brown hues of late spring offered plenty of time to reflect on why, exactly, I wanted to go to Wakkanai. Or rather, to rationalize that decision, having already committed to it. Surely, when I returned from Wakkanai, and was asked why I’d bothered to go there, “I don’t know” wouldn’t cut it as a response—even if it would give me a chance to wow people with my newly acquired bit of Japanese wordplay.
But before I was able to come up with an answer, there it was: Japan’s uppermost point, a city of some 30,000 souls, cut into a bay that looks like some enormous creature took a big bite out of it.
Photos courtesy of John Semley
Actually, one thing that had immediately piqued my interest, beyond the far-northness of it all, was its adjacency to Russia. From Cape Sōya, I read that you could see—with the naked eye—the southern coast of Sakhalin, just 25 miles away, on a clear day. Given the current geopolitical situation, I couldn’t really imagine myself visiting Russia proper anytime soon. Maybe being able to spy this island on its south-easterly perimeter, dangling down into the Sea of Japan, would scratch some sort of itch.
And arriving in Wakkanai—where the tracks of the northern-bound JR Hokkaido rail line simply end—I was surprised to find just how proximal it was to the Russian coast, both geographically and culturally. Many of the street signs featured Cyrillic characters. I quickly learned the town even used to boast an actual Russian restaurant, though it had recently closed as part of a larger trend across Japan. Riding a city bus from Wakkanai Station to Cape Sōya (another leisurely trundle), I was pleased to learn that all the hype was true. Sitting on a rocky outcropping on the edge of the shore, enjoying a can of beer from a nearby vending machine, I felt a little bit like Sarah Palin, who famously claimed she could see Russia from her backyard. “Well,” I thought to myself. “There she is.”
Having seen some vague, Russia-like landmass, I felt satisfied. I took a photo of the pyramidal “Monument of Peace,” commemorating the sinking of US and Japanese ships during WWII, and their doomed crewmen drowned at sea. Then I crossed the barely-trafficked two-lane highway, to enjoy a bowl of ramen at a small, empty shop, administered by a fleet of ancient, bent-over grannies who didn’t speak a lick of English. (The broth was infused with seaweed culled from the local coastline, and was immensely refreshing.) I loaded up on some souvenirs from the Cape Sōya souvenir depot, as proof of my northerly conquest, and rode the bus back to central Wakkanai.
Photo by John Semley
There, I checked into a modest, Japanese-style hotel (the ones with the tatami mattresses on the floor; hell for a lifelong side-sleeper), and wandered around looking for something else to eat. At Wakkanai Station’s gift shop, you can buy tins of deer and bear. I consider myself a fairly adventurous—or at least undiscriminating—eater, but I couldn’t quite get myself there. Something about the image of myself seated cross-legged on my hotel room floor, hunched over, scarfing potted bear meat out of a can struck me as a little depressing.
I also passed an izakaya with an English sign stating that they only cater to Japanese-speakers. While I get that this is a wider issue associated with overtourism, and the resulting difficulty of local mom-and-pop shops to cater to the regulars who typically make up the bulk of their business, I couldn’t believe it was much of a problem in Wakkanai, specifically. Overtourism didn’t really strike me as a huge problem there. By the estimate of one local guide, only 160 people pass through Wakkanai Station every day. (Kyoto Station, by comparison, sees about 630,000 daily visitors. Tokyo’s Shinjuku manages the flow of some 3.6 million every single day.)
Nevertheless, I was resolved not to take it personally, instead opting for another spot nearby that I figured was probably good, since its name on Google was in Japanese. The staff helped me navigate the menus and even pretended to be impressed at the pathetically few Japanese words I could muster. But, most importantly, they helped me order the delicacy tako shabu, a traditional hot pot dish (shabu shabu), where the usual beef is replaced by meaty slices of the giant Sōya octopus (tako). Long regarded across the rest of Japan as a less flavourful cut, the local preparation is a testament to the sort of ingenuity that abounds in remote communities like the one in Wakkanai. The softer, more delicate meat didn’t constrict as severely in heat as most octopus does. Merely dipping it in a bubbling kelp broth rendered it perfectly tender while also imbuing it with more flavor. Accompanied by some sashimi, fried chicken, and a glass of draft beer, it made for a great meal.
Photo by John Semley
After dinner, there was not a whole lot else to do. I puttered around the empty streets. I walked under the curvature of the North Breakwater Dome, a Roman-inspired structure erected in the wake of the Russo-Japanese War, in an effort to develop diplomatic relations between Japan’s northernmost and Russia’s southernmost fishing communities. The prevailing mood, if I’m being honest, was not just peace-and-quiet, but boredom. Compared with the relentless hustle and bustle of Japan’s metropolises, the pace of things in Wakkanai grinded to a halt.
For the first week-or-so I spent racing through Tokyo and Sapporo, the very idea that Japan could be boring—that I wouldn’t find some buzz to jolt my senses around every corner—was a little unthinkable. But there, in a town unburdened by heavy expectation and my own personal tendency to overplan, I felt free. Truth be told, visiting Wakkanai was one of the most memorable parts of a trip positively littered with great memories.
Hitting Japan’s northernmost point, riding some city buses back-and-forth, swishing some slices of giant octopus through roiling broth was not exactly the stuff of Fermor or Theroux. But it was a badge of some kind; like one of those digital medallions awarded for accomplishing a relatively rare feat in a PlayStation game. And one thing’s for sure: Japanese people sure seem to get a kick out of it when I tell them I’ve been there. That initial, incredulous reaction of, “Why are you going to Wakkanai?” has been recast with amusement and enthusiasm. “You’ve been to Wakkanai?!” they now ask instead. It’s a blunt but fair question, to which I reply that I was just doing what most people do when they travel—going somewhere just to say they’ve been.
Think Sports Are Boring? Try a Japanese Baseball GameAs an introvert, it shocks me to realize that I love all of this.
Want more Thrillist? Follow us on Instagram, TikTok, Twitter, Facebook, Pinterest, and YouTube.
John Semley is a writer and researcher based in Philadelphia, PA.
AloJapan.com