"On the Way to Nowhere" is a short film that documents a couple of skiers searching for adventure on the North Island of Japan. Skier Carson McCarron and filmmaker Patrick Yun and friends headed to Japan last January for a 12-day trip around Hokkaido. Their journey is captured in the short film, “On the Way to Nowhere,” which dropped on YouTube this week. The film was supported by Flylow. These are Patrick Yun's words about the film.
Japan didn’t feel real at first. Everything felt quieter than I expected, even when it was busy. Like there was space built into the rhythm of the place. And then we chased that quiet straight into the snow.
The first stretch of the trip was in Niseko, where the snow immediately lived up to the hype. We stayed at the Niseko Backcountry Lodge, waking up early to storms hammering the windows and snow piling faster than we could keep track of. The first few days were spent exploring the Niseko backcountry, easing into the terrain, dialing in pacing, figuring out how to balance filming and riding without burning out too early.
We filmed a lot around Annupuri—deep trees, soft landings, and that endless feeling of snow that just kept refilling between laps. I filmed Carson and Ian weaving through forests where every turn felt suspended. Carrying a camera through chest-deep snow made everything slower and heavier, but somehow more intentional. Missing turns to catch moments.
After Niseko, we headed south to Akita, flying into the Tohoku region where things felt even more remote. We stayed at Anaba Lodge, which quickly became one of those places that feels like a secret. Simple, warm, and perfectly placed for what we were there to do. From there, we spent our days filming the backcountry around Ani Ski Resort with Hank Skinner helping us behind the camera.
This was where things started to feel surreal. The terrain was quieter, deeper, and more alien. We rode through massive snow monsters—trees completely encased in snow and ice, shaped by relentless wind and storms. Branches disappeared. Entire forests turned into white sculptures. Riding through them felt like moving inside a frozen wave, ducking and weaving through shapes that didn’t look real. This is where we got Carson hitting a flat 3 off a jump we made on the side of a mountain. When he was at the pinnacle of his jump, he was as tall as the snow monster next to him.
Every day followed a rhythm. Early starts. Long hikes. Filming Carson and Ian as they dropped into lines that felt untouched and endless. The snow absorbed sound so completely that sometimes all I could hear was my own breathing and twigs snapping. By the time we made it back, my legs were toast and my hands barely worked, but it felt earned.
To finish the trip, we went north again—way north—to the northernmost part of Hokkaido, to Asahidake. That place felt different the second we arrived. Volcanic. Alive. Steam rose straight out of the snow, drifting into the cold air like something out of a dream. It wreaked sulfur, and the ground felt like it was breathing.
We filmed Carson riding lines with vapor rolling behind him, and one moment still stands out above everything else. Carson hitting a backflip directly over one of the steaming vents, snow swirling, vapor rising beneath him. It felt unreal watching it through my lens—like the landscape itself was part of the trick. That shot alone felt like the entire trip distilled into one moment.
Evenings everywhere were slow and grounding. Onsens every chance we got. Steam mixing with cold air. Muscles sinking back into place. Quiet dinners, bowls of ramen, barely needing to talk because everyone knew how full the days had been. Reviewing clips, hoping the shots worked, knowing the feeling mattered just as much as the footage.
By the end of the trip, I had 900 gigabytes of footage and my body was wrecked. But mentally, I felt clearer. Slower. More patient. Japan taught me something about pacing—about letting the environment lead, about trusting the process, about being okay with messing up so you can try harder on the next one. -Patrick Yun