Hokkaido is not a Disney movie

“The snow glows white on the mountain tonight, not a footprint to be seen.” When people hear those lyrics, they imagine Elsa in a sparkling winter wonderland. But for those of us in Asahikawa—the coldest city in Japan with a record low of -41°C—the reality is a bit less musical. Here, a “white mountain” means your car is buried, your fingers are numb, and the sky is so thick with snow that footprints don’t just disappear; entire human beings do.

In winter, we treat snow as a nuisance—a white enemy we must shovel, plow, and curse. But when our summers hit a scorching 35°C, my perspective shifts. Dripping with sweat in my office, I find myself desperately wishing I could summon a little of Elsa’s “frozen” magic.

To be honest, I am the type of person who vows to emigrate the moment winter hits, muttering, “This is no place for a human being to live.” Yet, as I swelter in the summer heat, I find myself grumbling, “At least you can bundle up against the cold; but you can’t exactly peel off your own skin. Summer is the absolute worst.”

Japan’s distinct and ever-changing four seasons are often hailed as a national treasure. However, perhaps all they really do is expose a fatal flaw in human nature—one that remains uncured until death: the relentless habit of complaining about exactly what we don’t have.

The “natural battery” in our backyard

As it turns out, we are learning to use Elsa’s magic, but we call it “Cold Energy Utilization.” Hokkaido is the agricultural powerhouse of Japan, producing most of our potatoes, onions, and rice. To keep these crops fresh, we use massive snow-storage warehouses. It’s a low-tech but brilliant renewable energy source: we store the winter’s “curse” and use it as a summer “blessing” to refrigerate our food.

Even our gateway to the world, New Chitose Airport, uses this system. The snow cleared from the runways in winter is stored in a giant mound and used to power the terminal’s air conditioning in the summer.

The catch? It’s not common yet because building a “fridge for snow” requires a massive initial investment. It’s much cheaper to just let the sun do the work—though that has its own problems.

The solar struggle

At the CondeHouse factory, we’ve installed solar panels on our roofs to power our woodworking machines. It feels great to be eco-friendly, but Hokkaido’s nature likes to play jokes on us. In winter, the solar output drops to almost zero because the panels are buried under meters of snow. Guess whose job it is to brush it off?

Meanwhile, back in the office, we don’t have air conditioning. My management—perhaps wanting us to “experience the short Hokkaido summer to the fullest”—lets us sweat it out for the one or two weeks of extreme heat. As I sit there, dreaming of the -41°C winter, I realize that the true “Let It Go” moment isn’t about ice palaces; it’s about finally letting go of the idea that nature is something we can easily control.

Nature in Hokkaido is a fierce partner. We work with it, we struggle against it, and occasionally, we try to store its leftovers in a big box to keep our potatoes cold. It’s not a fairy tale, but it’s a living.

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Hokkaido’s nature is a cycle of extremes—from the biting frost of winter to the humid heat of summer. Our “Hatsune Miku Art Chair” is built to withstand these transitions. Crafted from local timber that has survived the same harsh -41°C winters I describe, this chair possesses a resilience that “warm-weather” furniture can’t match. It’s a piece born from the snow, designed to bring a cool, calm elegance to your home all year round. Why not own a chair that has the spirit of the Hokkaido wilderness—without the need for a shovel?

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