As I sit in front of my gate at the New Chitose Airport in Hokkaido, preparing to leave Japan after three months, my mind drifts back across the winter that just passed. The skis are packed. the avalanche transceiver is off and the long mornings and deeper storms of Hokkaido are now memories. And like many endings in the mountains, this one invites reflection.
Although I was certified as a ski guide several years ago, it took me a long time before I could step into the mechanized ski industry. The door did not open easily. I knocked on many of them. Sometimes it felt like the credentials alone were not enough — as if access required belonging to a circle that already knew each other. A small circle of friends. And for a long time, I was standing outside of it.
But eventually, one door opened.
This winter I spent the season flying in helicopters and riding snowcats across the powder-covered landscapes of Hokkaido, guiding clients through terrain that feels almost dreamlike when the storms arrive from the Sea of Japan. It is a reality that, not so long ago, felt almost impossible.
When I was a teenager growing up in Ecuador, a Jesuit teacher once told our class something that stayed with me. “Boys, it is important to be pragmatic. Don’t dream about becoming an astronaut or something that is not part of our reality.” I understand what he meant. There is value in realism. But something about that statement never fully convinced me. Because life has a way of surprising us.
Guiding mechanized ski operations in Japan was certainly not part of the cards I held when I was thirteen. In fact, I learned to ski in my twenties. My path into the mountains was anything but straightforward. I failed my ski movement exam the first time I attempted it. Even after passing it later, skiing remained the weakest link in my professional skill set for a long time. Building experience meant chasing winters across the world, accumulating mileage that sometimes left my bank account in the negative. But progress in the mountains rarely happens in straight lines. It happens through persistence, through mentors, through small steps that only reveal their meaning when you look back years later.
Sometimes I imagine sitting down with my thirteen-year-old self. If I could talk to that kid today, I would tell him something simple: Dream about anything!
Coming back to the present I must say that one of the most meaningful parts of this winter was the team I had the privilege of working with at Hokkaido Backcountry Club. To the guides and staff who trusted me and welcomed me into the operation — thank you.
There was something refreshing about this team. Something that stood out. The outdoor industry often speaks about diversity, and slowly the landscape is changing. But the mechanized ski guiding niche is still fairly monotone in many places.
This season in Japan felt different. Every morning at 6:30, we gathered for the guides meeting — the daily ritual of coffee, maps, weather forecasts, and snowpack discussions. The InfoEx, where guides compare observations and prepare to manage the day’s risks. And as I looked around the room each morning, I noticed something that felt powerful in its simplicity.
Diversity.
Different countries. Different accents. Different paths of training. Different genders.
Different colors. A mosaic of perspectives coming together to analyze the same snowpack and make decisions that mattered.
Research tells us that diverse teams make better decisions. In professions where the stakes are high, that diversity becomes more than symbolism — it becomes a strength.
Our job as guides is simple to describe but complex to execute: bring everyone home safely.
For the HBC operation, more than ten guides were often managing multiple clients across sidecountry terrain, deep backcountry tours, snowcat operations, and heli skiing. The level of exposure in that environment is significant. Wrapping up a season safe and sound is never guaranteed. But this year, I felt something I deeply appreciated. I felt safe. Part of that came from professionalism. Part of it came from communication. And part of it came from the richness of perspectives around the table every morning.
I am not the first guide of color working in mechanized skiing. But we are still a minority. And to me, that reality carries a quiet responsibility. I hope that somewhere out there, a young skier or snowboarder of color might see someone in this profession who looks like them and realize that this path is possible. I say this because sometimes when people look at an activity and everyone involved looks different from them, it sends a silent message: Maybe this is not for you.
But the mountains were never meant to belong to only a few. They belong to everyone. Dreams belong to everyone. And if those of us who are here today can help ensure that the next generation of guides is more diverse than ours, then we will have done something meaningful.
Now, as my flight is called and I prepare to leave Hokkaido behind for another season, I feel both proud and grateful. Proud of the unlikely path that brought me here — a journey that began far away from snowy mountains and required patience and stubbornness. Grateful for the people who opened doors along the way. Grateful for the mentors, the colleagues, the guides who shared knowledge, trust, and opportunity.
I hope to return for many more winters, continuing to learn and continuing to serve in this profession that has given me so much.
Because the future of our mountains — and the people who guide within them —is colorful.
