Snow Monkeys : Nagano, Japan

I left Tokyo early in the afternoon, boarding one of Japan’s modern trains north bound for the mountains. Everything moved with quiet precision—platform announcements, orderly lines, good food.

I watched the city peel away into countryside: glass, steel and concrete giving way to rice fields, then snow-covered hills. By the time I reached Nagano, the landscape had completely transformed. From there, a local connection took me deeper into the mountains, toward the snow monkeys of Jigokudani.

Some of my favorite photographic moments took place here—spending quiet winter days among the monkeys in the snow.

There’s something almost meditative about sitting in the cold, camera in hand, watching these macaques go about their lives. They bathe in the natural hot springs, steam rising around them like breath. They groom each other with commitment and tenderness, tend to their young, and leap across rocks in playful bursts. The scene is dynamic, yet everything feels ethereal.

As a photographer, I approached the monkeys much like I would any portrait subject. I studied their faces, watched for particular expressions, and waited for “that moment”—something that hinted at personality, spirit or mood. Over time, I began to recognize individuals. Some were bold, others more withdrawn. One liked to sit near the edge of the pool, half-asleep in the steam. Another kept a close watch on her baby, always scanning the rocks while grooming. These weren't just animals—they were characters, each with their own personality.

As the light moved across the canyon, the atmosphere would change completely. Morning brought a blue cast and crisp shadows; by afternoon, golden light slid down the snowy walls, giving the steam an atmospheric glow. The only sounds were the monkeys' soft movements—the splash of water, the sudden patter of feet as they scampered up the steep slopes. Their presence was wild but oddly peaceful.

Photographing the snow monkeys wasn’t just about the images. It was about being in their world and letting nature lead. At times, I lay in the snow and gently played with the monkeys—moving slowly, letting them approach on their terms. A few came close, curious but calm. One sat just beside me, watching quietly as I adjusted the camera. These weren’t just photos—they were shared moments of trust and connection.

Just a short walk away—about a quarter mile—was a traditional ryokan nestled at the edge of the forest. After long hours in the canyons with the monkeys, it was heaven: a warm bath to soak in, followed by exquisite meals—seasonal, precise, and full of quiet artistry. I’d slide open the paper screens to my room, where tatami mats transformed the space from a sitting area to a sleeping one. The simplicity was elegant, the ritual comforting.

Those quiet days in the snow remain some of my most cherished