"You are a fool to not climb Mt. Fuji once, and you are a fool to
climb Mt. Fuji twice." -Japanese proverb.
I certainly wasn't nervous about climbing Mt. Fuji in the days leading up
to the climb. Travel blogs describe groups of hearty Japanese
seniors ascending the mountain regularly.Mt. Fuji is the world's most visited and
climbed mountain. Fuji becomes so crowded during the mountain's open season,
July and August, climbers often have to wait in line to pass through a narrow
section of trail like it were a Disneyland ride.
At 12,388 feet, sure, altitude
sickness and the cold are real concerns. But there are rest stations all the
way up the mountain where you can eat, sleep, get warm, and acclimate before
going any further. You can pretty much stroll up the soft slopes at whatever
leisurely pace you find suitable.
All these things that I'd read and been told may well be true, but I'll
never know. Our trip took an unexpected turn.
Our original plan:
Tuesday, my birthday: take the bullet train north to the city of Fuji in
Shizuoka Prefecture, south of Mt. Fuji. Sleep. Wednesday, Sarah's birthday,
continue north on a bus to Yamanashi Prefecture, north of the mountain. Ride
bus to the first of Mt. Fuji's resting lodges, Station 5, located at the
halfway point of the mountain. Hike through the afternoon, stopping to
acclimate and rehydrate at Stations 6, 7, and 8. Reach Station 9, the highest
resting lodge, by nightfall. Eat dinner. Sleep until 2:00 A.M. Resume hiking.
Reach the summit by 4:00 A.M., watch a perspective-shattering sunrise. Retrace
steps back to Osaka.
What happened:
The first unexpected event was how bad I felt on the day we left. This was
my birthday, and we'd celebrated the night before with friends, Karaoke, and
the seductively dangerous Japanese custom of nomihodai or "all you
can drink". Perhaps, feeling terrible the next day wasn't unexpected. But
I had underestimated how wretched I would feel that day. The dried
ketchup'n'mayo combo all over my hands, however, truly was unexpected and
unremembered. I hazily recollect applauding a late night/early morning world
cup game without thinking to remove the hot dog from my hand.
 |
| "Hey there 27 years, you're looking pretty good." |
Despite this adversity, and with some help from Sarah, we were able to pack
for Fujisan and make it to the Shinkansen bullet train.
The train bolted
North-East toward the the town of Fuji, sitting in the shadow of the mountain.
Even at speeds upward of 200 mph our ride was a couple of hours.
As we
approached the town of Fuji, Sarah and I glanced out the window, hoping to
catch a glimpse of the towering mountain. But Fujisan remained hidden the entire night, behind fog which had engulfed
the countryside of central Japan and dulled the dwindling sunlight.
The second unexpected turn was that Fuji turned out to be a dark suburb
that was as quiet as any other on a Tuesday night. We followed a small canal
through the heart of the town to our motel. The walk was ten minutes without
seeing or hearing another person. Our motel was for salarymen on business. Sarah had asked for a couple's
room. Apparently all this meant was that we got an extra robe and pair of
slippers to go with our twin mattress. Sarah still maintains it was a
"semi-double", which I'm nearly certain is an oxymoron she invented
to test my gullibility.
At midnight it became Sarah's birthday. We were asleep minutes later.
The next morning we woke early and scampered back along the canal to the
train station. It was still foggy out, but the sun's warmth, though invisible,
could be felt.
We grabbed a few more snacks to hold us over until our lunch at Station 5
and our dinner on Station 9. We ducked into the information office to grab some
maps and confirm the departure time and location of our bus. The information
office was conjoined with a larger lobby that was currently displaying a
gallery of Fujisan photography.
The woman at the information desk did not speak any English. She called out
in Japanese and looked frantically from side to side. She held up a pointer
finger, begging us to wait.
I glanced over dozens of photographs. Every single photo was of Mt. Fuji.
The angles and seasons changed from photo to photo, but always Fujisan. One
picture featured a weathered farmer in the foreground, bent over in a field of
lavender sprawled far off in the distance to the mountain's base.
My gazing was interrupted by the appearance of a second woman from behind a
partition in the back of the room. She was absolutely giddy with cheer.
"Hello! Welcome to to Fuji!" She greeted us. "My name's
Tomoka, do you do know Fuji?"
Her English was well practiced. She was confident and her speech was fluid.
Her pronunciation wasn't perfect, but it wasn't far from. It seemed as though she kept her English
skills well-honed, but had very few chances to use them. And as Mt. Fuji had
just opened for the climbing season, I guessed she hadn't gotten to speak with
Westerners in many, many months. She had the earnest, friendly demeanor of a
beloved pet who's been waiting by the front door all day. Her beaming glow was infectious, and we smiled back as Sarah took out our
itinerary.
"'So, we're climbing Fujisan today," Sarah told Tomoka, "and
we're trying to find where the 10:45 bus will pick us up."
"You are climbing Mount Fuji... today?" the gleam in Tomoka's
eyes dulled just a little.
"Yes, well today and tomorrow," Sarah replied, "we're going
to stay the night on the 9th Station."
Tomoka's forehead furrowed slightly. Yet, her smile was constant.
"We want to watch the sunrise," I added.
"Oh. Well you know, of course," Tomoka began, "you will need
to take the next bus at 8:30 this evening to go all away around to the north
side of Fujisan." As she said this, she put her finger on a map of the
area and dragged her finger around the mountain, slowly, as if the map were creating friction.
While Tomoka smiled, both Sarah and I paused for a moment. We immediately
began to sputter half-formed questions: "So the 10:45 A.M. bus we are taking... that... what about that?"
"Yes, well of course that bus is running, but it goes to the south
side of Fujisan. Which you know, is closed at this time of year."
Sarah and I looked at each other. I
sensed Sarah was on the verge of panic. "That's not the side of the mountain we want," I remarked.
"No. Fuck. It's not."
Sarah pouted at me, "shiiiiiiiit...And how long would a bus take
to the north side?" she asked Tomoka.
"Well yes, you know, it takes three hours to Yamanashi Prefecture in
the north." That part we did know. "And of course, you know, it takes
another hour for the bus to drive up to Station 5." That part we did not
know.
We quickly did some mental math and determined that we couldn't even
make it to the halfway point of the mountain until nearly 1:00 A.M. And even
then, we'd have no time to acclimate, we'd miss our Station 9 dinner and
sleeping arrangements by about six hours, and we certainly wouldn't make it to
the summit by sunrise.
"I fucked up," Sarah
admitted. She had done all the planning on her own, so I didn't want to make
her feel worse.
"Ya," I added. But I tried really hard to sound sympathetic.
We had planned our back-to-back birthdays around climbing Fujisan. Perhaps
Tomoka sensed the determination in our fidgeting faces because she offered us
Plan B. "Of course, I can't recommend this because of danger, you know,"
Tomoka began, "but, the south side of Fujisan is open. You know, it is not
safe to climb now, because of weather conditions, of course. Well and, after
Station 6, there is nowhere to stay, of course."
Sarah immediately asked for every map and pamphlet available regarding the
off-limits southern side of the mountain. We hadn't discussed whether or not we
should attempt the off-season climb. In truth, it wasn't necessary. We were
unsure of how we'd do it, but we were certain we were going up Fuji. We
purchased the bus the tickets that would take us to the inactive, south-side of
the the mountain.
While Sarah and I argued about how to make the climb, we were approached by
a handful of people with cameras, pen and paper, and suits. We were introduced
to the photographer responsible for the Fujisan photo gallery next to us, and also the
gallery's curator, a journalist for the local paper, and the mayor of the town.
It so happened that we were the first people of the year to climb Fuji's
south-side. Interviews and photo-ops were in order.
While answering questions and shaking hands from all directions, Sarah and
I continued to debate the foolishness of our plan, purposely speaking too
quickly to be understood by the people around us.
"Where do you come from?" - The reporter.
"We're from San Francisco..." Sarah replied. She turned to me
"...Do you think we'll be okay? We're not going to have a chance to
acclimate anywhere close to the summit."
"
Yes, but we've actually been living in Osaka for the last five
months," I announced. "We'll just have to take it very slow, babe,
and not push ourselves," I told her. Then, smiling, I informed everyone,
"We're actually both English teachers."
"Ahhhh, very good, SMILE! 1-2-3, CHEESE!" we smiled and
the camera snapped.
"Welcome to Japan and to our town!"-The mayor.
"Here's my concern with taking it slow," Sarah rebutted,
"we're going to have to hike at night and it's going to be freezing and
we'll have no place to stop and rest and warm up. We'll freeze if we move to
slowly."
"Here is the man who take all the photographs. Let's have picture
shaking hands." The curator.
"Of course," I said. We shook hands.
"Hajimimaste." -The photographer.
"Hajimimaste," I reply, "worse than that, Tomoka said
there's snow on the south-side, if our clothes get wet, we're screwed, but I
think-"
"-1-2-3 CHEESE!" Snap. Sarah takes turns shaking his hand.
"Hajimimaste" -The photographer.
"Hajimimaste" - Sarah.
"-that we can use trash bags as rain makeshift rain gear - oh Sarah,
smile at the camera."
"1-2-3 CHEESE!" Snap. Everyone grinned.
"Honestly," I went on, "I'm more worried about the food and
water. We'll have no stations to resupply at...Hey," I address the crowd,
"should we do a group photo?"
"Yes! Everyone stand together please." -The curator.
Sarah and I and Tomoka, the interviewer, photographer, curator, and mayor
all scrunched together.
"Please everyone, smile - say Fuji! 1-2-3..."
"FUJI!" -Everyone. Snap.
 |
| "What, we worry?" |
We were given one of the photographer's framed pictures as a gift. Of
course this led to more photos. And, of course, we were not able to take a
framed photograph of Fujisan with us as we climbed Fujisan. So we rented a
locker and stuffed into it the framed photograph along with as much unnecessary
gear as we could fit. We filled the extra room in our backpacks with reserve water
bottles and beef jerky.
As we waited for our bus we spent some more time lingering in the art
gallery, looking at photographs. I made sure to say a heartfelt goodbye to
Tomoka and everyone else. It was a gesture of genuine thankfulness. It was also
an insurance policy. If something went wrong on Fujisan, I wanted to make sure
they remembered that two friendly white people had passed through and hadn't
yet returned.
Sarah and I spent fifteen minutes sitting on the bus before the bus driver
decided to leave. He was waiting for other passengers. None came.
I looked for Fujisan as we drove. But I couldn't see the mountain through
the fog that had continued to thicken. The towns we passed were more and more
sub-rural. I found the landscape to be featureless compared to the immense,
urban Japan I was used to. The grey-dulled scenery had lulled me into hypnosis.
The bus came to a stop. I sat up and looked at my watch. Ninety minutes had
passed. The bus driver swiveled out of his seat and turned a stern look towards
Sarah and me.
"Shrine." He pointed out the window, but all I saw was fog.
"Pray! Ten minutes."
We hurried towards the shrine to find that a service was already in
progress. We didn't want to interrupt so we made due with a small fox statue
near the shrine's pond.
"What should we say?" Sarah asked.
"I don't really know," I admitted.
Perhaps praying, like so many things, takes practice to be good at. I
hadn't prayed since I was a scared eight year old boy. I remember that I'd
written a letter to a fictional character named Rita Repulsa. She was the
arch-nemesis of the Power Rangers, my Saturday morning superheroes. In this
letter I eviscerated Rita with every bad word I knew. I critiqued her plans to
enslave humanity as being "really dumb". I criticized her face for
being "gross and icky". I had also learned a new word that my mom
used in the car for drivers who were acting "really dumb".
"Rita, you are a real son of a bitch," is how I concluded my letter.
I felt righteous and proud. Unfortunately, the after-school staff felt
differently. As did my mother when she was shown the letter.
The drive home that night was silent, in the worst way. My mother waited
for my father to decide my punishment. This was likely because my father, who
swears remarkably little, would have a lot more legitimacy in enacting
discipline.
As I waited, truly terrified, I decided to pray, hoping God would grant me
a Mulligan. I was resourceful, though, and decided to explore every possible
solution I could think of. So I also prayed to my troll doll for help as well
as Stinky, my brother's pet rat. Ultimately, God, my troll doll, and Stinky
proved equally ineffective.
There, at the shrine's Fox statue, I tried one more time.
"Oh Fox-God of altitude sickness and clearly written trail signs...
please look after us."
"Amen," Sarah added. I might as well have prayed to Stinky.
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