My Pace – Life of Goro

Higashikawa is tucked at the base of Mt. Daisetsuzan in central Hokkaido, and has quietly become a hub for outdoor enthusiasts, particularly those chasing Japan’s legendary powder. Often called the “Gateway to Daisetsuzan,” the town provides direct access to the Asahidake Ropeway, a launch point into some of the most pristine—and untouched—backcountry terrain in the country. Skiers and snowboarders flock for the deep snow and wild alpine descents, but many stay for the slower rhythms of life that define the town. In warmer months, Higashikawa shifts seamlessly into a haven for hikers, photographers, and hot spring seekers, all drawn by the dramatic landscapes of Daisetsuzan National Park. And no one knows these wonders of Higashikawa better than Goro, a dear old friend of Trygve’s and pseudo-mayor of the village. Goro runs a small café—a cement industrial building turned ski-cafe, with home-cooked food and a piping-hot stove for the winter months. Small tables and chairs are placed with care across the room. Up a narrow staircase, there’s an attic space filled with skis—built solely to float through deep Japanese powder. The air inside carries wood smoke and coffee grounds. Outside, the small and all-too-practical “Only Made in Japan” Toyota vans roll by the window. Behind the café, in a small addition, is where Goro lives. A table with a fly-tying station sits in the corner for his fishing addiction. Antique rugs lay beneath a beautiful wooden record bar, which holds a vinyl player and about 100 records collected through the years—including his favorite Japanese rock band, Happy End. Goro lives for the outdoors. In the winter he skis. In the summer he fishes. Everything else is a means to those ends. When the café closes, he grabs his waders and fly rod, throws the former over his shoulder and straps the latter to his bike. At a leisurely pace, he coasts down to the water, using the flies he tied the week before to fish the local stream. For Goro, this is life. Rinse and repeat. The man is in his 50s but looks about 37. He has a small beard and mustache—which, beyond offering some context for his image, is notable because in Japan, facial hair is often an indicator of self-employment: a quiet badge of nonconformity. It’s easy to romanticize a life like Goro’s—but what stands out isn’t the nostalgia or the aesthetic. It’s the consistency. The certainty of what matters. There’s nothing flashy about the way Goro lives, and that’s what makes it stick. His days move with the seasons—skiing when it snows, fishing when it doesn’t, working just enough to keep both within reach. It’s not performative, not curated for anyone else. He’s not chasing anything beyond the next snowfall or rising trout. In a world where most lives are scheduled to the minute, Goro’s quiet autonomy feels both radical and enviable. A self-governed life, anchored in the outdoors—hard to come by, and harder not to want.