Why I Carry Champagne in My Backpack

The first time I opened champagne in the Niseko backcountry, it was supposed to be just content.

I'd just launched Wine Solution and needed photos that captured what the service was about—the intersection of powder and celebration, quality wine in mountain environments. So I planned a shoot after a North Face descent. Bluebird skies—rare at Niseko’s peak—deep powder, perfect conditions.

My family came with me. We rode the entire face—one of those runs where everything works, deep fluffy powder, perfect visibility—the kind of day where you ride as hard as you can because nothing can stop you.

At the bottom, my daughter helped me set up the shot. We used my snowboard as a bar counter. I'd brought real glass stemware in my pack—not titanium cups or plastic, but actual portable wine glasses, because if you're going to stage something, do it properly. I poured for my wife first. Then myself. We clinked glasses and drank. My daughter snapped photos.

And standing there, high on powder, adrenaline pumping, still warm from the descent, with my daughter watching us toast in the middle of nowhere—I realized the photo shoot had become something else entirely. The champagne didn’t just look right for marketing purposes—it tasted different. Sharper. More alive. Better than ever. The cold amplified everything—the acidity, the bubbles, the sensation of reward after the burn in your legs from the descent.

That's when I understood I'd been celebrating powder days wrong for years.

The Timing Window I'd Been Missing

For years, our North Face ritual followed the same pattern: finish the run, make the long traverse back to Hanazono, celebrate at Hana 1 Café with a bottle from their selection.

It worked well enough. Standing outside the café, still hot and sweaty from the effort, champagne in hand—it felt earned. The problem was what happened during the hour between finishing the descent and popping the cork.

Getting back to Hanazono from the bottom of North Face takes time. Even with strong skiers and riders, you're looking at close to an hour. With my family, it takes longer—I tow my daughter the entire cat-track back, which turns the return into its own workout.

By the time you finally reach Hana 1 Café, you're exhausted. But it's a different kind of tired. The adrenaline from the descent is gone. You're thinking about food, your legs, whether you have another run in you. The mental context has shifted.

Then I took that first sip right after finishing the North Face run—my favorite line in all of Niseko—and everything changed.

At –10°C, the cold heightens the champagne’s acidity. Your heart rate is still elevated from the hike to the peak and the intensity of the descent, which changes how you perceive carbonation. The bubbles hit harder, more pronounced. Your body temperature is up from exertion, creating stark contrast with the frozen bottle you've just pulled from the snow.

Most importantly, your dopamine levels are spiking. That post-powder high isn't just psychological—it's neurochemical. And it enhances taste perception across the board.

One hour later at Hanazono's base, you're still warm from the traverse and hike. Your muscles are still tired. But your adrenaline has normalized. Your attention has moved on. The magic of what just happened has started to blur into the rest of the day.

The physiological window has closed.

I'd always thought celebration was about having good champagne available. That day taught me something more specific: timing matters more than terroir when you're riding a post-powder high. Champagne also gives you second wind for the traverse back to Hanazono.

That's when carrying champagne became non-negotiable.

Churchill Got It Right

Winston Churchill, who reportedly drank a bottle of Pol Roger daily, said: "In victory, I deserve it. In defeat, I need it."

This applies perfectly to Niseko's gate system.

When Gate 3 opens after days of wind holds and you score first tracks down untouched Peak terrain—you deserve it. When you hike to the peak only to find wind crust, limited visibility, and challenging conditions but push through anyway—you need it.

The ritual works for both scenarios. Epic powder days deserve immediate acknowledgment. Difficult days deserve perspective and morale recovery.

I've opened champagne after perfect runs and after humbling ones. The former tastes like victory. The latter tastes like resilience. Both matter.

Planning For Joy

Niseko Powder Secrets has always been about eliminating luck from the powder equation. You study avalanche reports, position yourself strategically, understand gate opening patterns, maintain backup plans for wind holds. The best powder days aren't accidental—they're engineered through systematic preparation.

Carrying champagne operates on the same principle: planning for joy.

Imagine this. You finish your descent. Everyone regroups at a natural stopping point—in the Niseko backcountry, typically where you'd switch to touring mode if you have a splitboard. You're all still breathing hard, yelling "YEAH!", "AMAZING!" or "EPIC!", processing what just happened.

The bottle comes out. Someone handles cork duty (usually whoever has the most dexterity in their hands—cold affects people differently). The pop echoes in the snow. No ceremony, no speeches. Just glasses raised and a loud "Cheers!" or "Kampai!" in unison. The champagne becomes part of the run itself rather than a separate après-ski activity.

Compare this to evening celebration back at the lodge. The energy there is genuine—storytelling, laughter, great wine. But it's reflection, not immersion. You're recounting the experience rather than still living in it. Both have their place. The timing just creates different kinds of joy.

Which is why carrying champagne isn't indulgent—it's strategic. The perfect moment for celebration passes—whether you’re ready or not.

Packing champagne works the same way you pack extra layers even when the forecast looks stable. The same way you bring a headlamp even though you plan to be down by 3pm. The same way you carry more water than you think you'll need. The difference is those preparations guard against things going wrong.

The champagne guards against missing the moment when everything goes right. And when things don't go right—when Gate 3 stays closed, when visibility drops, when conditions challenge you—that's when you need it most.

When It Makes Tactical Sense

Not every run justifies carrying champagne. The ritual loses meaning if it becomes routine.

I carry champagne when:

• Peak gates have been closed for multiple days and finally open

• Conditions are predicted to be exceptional (30cm+ overnight, clear skies)

• It's someone's first Niseko peak run or last run of their trip

• We're attempting a challenging route we've been planning

• Conditions are marginal and we need a psychological boost for the commitment

I don't carry it when:

• Doing quick morning laps before conditions deteriorate

• Weather is severe enough that stopping to celebrate is impractical

• We're touring into remote terrain where weight matters

• We're riding inbounds powder runs

The decision is tactical, not automatic. Like checking the avalanche report or choosing your peak run based on wind direction and snow conditions, it's part of the strategic framework for maximizing powder experiences.

What The Ritual Actually Celebrates

I've opened champagne after perfect runs and after difficult ones. After bluebird days and in whiteout conditions. With large groups and with just my family. What I've learned is that the specific bottle matters far less than the act of stopping to acknowledge what just happened, although Pol Roger remains my favorite.

It's an acknowledgment that this moment—this specific convergence of conditions, timing, people, and terrain—deserves to be marked and celebrated. Powder days are temporary. The snow gets tracked out. Weather changes. Gates close. The season ends. What you're left with are memories, and memories strengthen when you punctuate them with specific rituals.

Opening champagne on the mountain creates a mental bookmark. Years later, you'll remember not just the run but the specific moment you stopped, the cold sting of bubbles, who was there, what was said (or not said). The ritual transforms a great run into a story.

After twenty years of riding Niseko, individual powder days blur together. But the ones where we stopped to acknowledge what just happened—those stay vivid. I can tell you specific details about runs we did because we marked them with champagne. The ritual created the memory structure.

Why I Carry Champagne

That North Face run with my family—when my daughter helped set up the shot and watched us toast in the snow—wasn't just good marketing content. It was the moment I understood something about powder hunting that twenty years of experience hadn't taught me: the best runs aren't just about finding deep snow.

They're about recognizing when you're in the middle of something extraordinary and being prepared to mark it before the moment passes.

Now, when conditions warrant it—when the gate finally opens after days of wind holds, when everything aligns, when the run demands acknowledgment—the champagne is there.

Churchill understood that champagne serves both victory and defeat—but powder hunting adds a third: the fleeting moment that demands acknowledgment before it disappears.

In victory, you deserve it. In defeat, you need it.

And in powder—when everything aligns and you're standing in snow up to your thighs, still processing what just happened—you'd better have it ready.

Because the best celebrations, like the best powder days, can't be deferred.

Practical Intelligence: How to Actually Do This

My glasses are made for picnics and travel, each in a protective case.

Bottle selection matters. I usually go with a 375ml half-bottle for two or a full 750ml bottle for three or four.

Pack positioning is critical. The bottle, still in the box, goes in the center of my pack. The box doubles as both protection and temperature control. I've never broken a bottle since I started doing this, even after tumbling.

Pack size. For day trips in the Niseko area, I always go with my Osprey Soelden 22L. Not too tight and not too big. It's the perfect size. Besides the champagne, I can fit avalanche gear including skins, and two bottles of Aquarius (sports drink), snacks and other stuff. Bigger and things would start moving around inside, which can be annoying when riding deep and steep slopes.

Group dynamics require coordination. In a group of four, one person carries the bottle and another carries glasses. With strong drinkers, we may bring two full bottles.

A note on safety: Backcountry skiing and snowboarding carry inherent risks that require constant vigilance, proper equipment, and sound judgment. Avalanche safety equipment, training, and awareness remain non-negotiable.