The bath is a black-bottomed infinity pool large enough for a dozen bathers. The water looks greenish. Steam rises languidly, as if it can't decide where it wants to go. Beyond another door is the rotemburo, or outdoor bath, where the hot mineral water is melting the snow. As I slide the door open, a gust of frigid air hits me. It is so cold, so arctic, that I don't remember much else until I sink into the warm water. The steam rises, drifting over my head into the cloudless night sky.

After our bath, a ryokan maid knocks on our door and leads us to a small private dining room, where we remain for the next three hours. The fourteen-course dinner begins with a thimble-size cup of sweet plum wine and continues with a quantity of Hokkaido fish—raw, skewered, grilled, simmering, deep-fried, and baked in custard. By the time we are served homemade roasted-chestnut ice cream, all I can think about is sleep.

The next morning, lazing in the rotemburo before breakfast, I have an epiphany: We should get Tanaka-san back in our lives and make our first day of exploring the ski slopes easier. He speaks English, after all, and my Japanese is rusty.

Our first stop with Tanaka-san is Asari Village, a small resort with four powdery runs less than a mile from Kuramure. As with old-style New England skiing, what Asari Village lacks in glamour and excitement it makes up for in homespun fun and lack of complications. Five minutes after we've arrived, Leslee is outfitted, helmeted, ticketed, and on her way to the chair lift, where she's joined by a cheerful herd of middle-school girls in powder-pink parkas and nubby hand-knit hats.

We assume that our afternoon destination, the dreaded Mount Tengu, will be more of a hassle—since it is a larger mountain with a full-fledged gondola, mountain-top restaurant, and ski school. But Tengu is surprisingly painless, and the steep runs provide a breathtaking two-hundred-degree view of Otaru, its coastline, windswept harbor, and meandering city streets.

Sunset is coming and the wind picks up. We retreat to Kuramure and its onsen, where a young mother and her two-year-old daughter are already soaking. I tell Leslee that it's not unusual to chat with fellow bathers—some how-to pamphlets handed to foreigners include expressions to use while bathing, like "Subarashi" ("Fantastic!") and "Goku-raku, goku-raku" ("It's heaven!")—but we aren't quite ready for that. Heading outdoors to the rotemburo to be by ourselves, we submerge to our chins to stay warm. Steam isn't rising because gale force winds blow it away. Wild weather is arriving from Siberia, Tanaka-san had warned us. And here it is.

During dinner, the rain begins, loud and heavy. The wind is howling. Leslee and I drift to the glowing hardwood bar, not so much for drinks as for more weather. We marvel at the utterly clear and perfectly square ice cubes in my glass of shochu. The wind is unrelenting by this time, a screaming blast. The rain has turned to snow, and the flakes are wide and fat and spinning into the dark oblivion.