(Here is the second half to the Mt. Fuji trip, though its longer than the first half. The first half of the trip is the previous post, so read that before reading this post, if you haven't already.).
It was impossible to tell if our bus was climbing the mountain yet. The
steeped gradient suggested yes. Through the fog, though, I could barely see the
edge of the road.
Every now and then I'd catch a glimpse of trees. I wondered if we were
passing by Aokigahara, otherwise known as "Suicide Forest".
Aokigahara, seated on the feet of Fujisan, has been infamous long before
its modern nicknaming. Japanese mythology tells of the forest as haunted
grounds. It certainly has the look and feel. The trees, fueled by Fuji's
volcanic nutrients, grow so thick that Aokigahara stands in near darkness and
silence.
Aokihara's legend says that it is the eternal home of the spirits who were
victims of ubasute during the dark days of Japan's fuedal era. Perhaps
more myth than truth, ubasute was the practice of bringing the elderly
and infirm to Fujisan and leaving them for dead. Sons would carry their mother
or father towards the mountain, passing through Aokigahara. The sons would
tire, and leave their parent in the forest and let nature take its course.
It is the ghosts of the abandoned family members who stalk the forest, and
torment those who pass through to end their own lives. Aokigahara is among the
most popular suicide locations in the world, but this is more likely to do with
Japanese literature glorifying "Suicide Forest" and the pressures of
Japanese work culture - (suicide rates peak in March at the end of Japanese
fiscal year).
As I read the above information on my phone, I passed the story along to
Sarah in the wavering spooky voice.
"Wait a second," she stopped me, "we get phone reception
here?"
"This modern world!" I screeched in my best 'Eureka!' voice.
The bus driver gave his lone passengers a furrowed glance in through the
rear-view mirror. He pulled to a stop, pointed through the fog and announced,
"Station 2, bathroom, store. Ten minutes."
We walked through the fog, stumbling upon Station 2. It was a simple log
cabin, and there were no lights on inside. We found an unlocked door and let
ourselves in. There were some hiking and camping supplies that were set up, as
if on display, but they looked dusty and there was no one around to sell them.
Sarah pointed out the walking sticks they sold. They were simple, shaved,
wooden staffs. She'd read that each station had a unique stamp that they'd
brand into the stick to mark how high up Fuji you made it.
I wanted one.
As it would turn out, not only were the upper stations not open, but they
were devoid of any inhabitants to brand my stick. And yet, the walking staff
would prove itself to be a useful buy, being a life-saver.
I picked a sturdy looking staff and stamped it into the ground. Much like
Gandalf's, my staff seemed to have summoning powers. A nervous looking man
appeared from some hidden backroom and sold us the staff and some water. He
never made eye contact.
Later, upon further reading I realized we were not passing through
Aokigahara. We were driving up the Southeast side of Mt. Fuji, Aokigahara is on
the Northwest. I did not tell Sarah this.
Instead I began to haunt her with the tale of Fuji's mythological birdmen -
Tengu.
"Hikers of Fuji tell tale of creatures .... half-bird, half-man, all
demon! The Tengu ride the winds, attacking hikers unaware, leaving them
near death and making them eat animal dung-"
"Wait," Sarah interrupted, "did you say Tengu? Like 'Tengu'
brand beef jerkey, that has that mascot on their bags who has a penis for a
nose?"
"Yeah, I guess the name is the same," I conceded, quickly using
my 4G to find terrifying images of the Tengu, "but these are
terrible bird-demons, I don't think they have penises for - no, no, you're
right, they definitely have penises for noses."
 |
| Definitely... |
The weather had gone from bad to worse by the time the bus came to our
final stop, Station 5. We stepped out into an even thicker mist. Violent gusts
of wind blew through, making the mist feel like it was stuffed with ice shards,
cutting as they swept over.
It was the middle of the afternoon, yet the sun was imperceptible. Through
mists and cloud, light came through like a flashlight sunken in a murky lake.
The ground was loose pumice stone, red and brown. The ground shifted with
every step, but it never changed. There were no trees, and only a rare shrub of
hardy plant. Even the rocks looked the same.
Up there, at 8,000 feet, the world felt less like Earth and more like Mars.
 |
| Look there! A Martian! |
In Station 5 we were able to change into our warm clothes. I'd neglected to
bring long underwear. Sarah generously, but with a smirk, gave me an extra pair
of her leggings to wear under my pants. They had frilly flowers on the cuff.
We were also able to get a stamp on my wooden staff from a member of their
skeleton crew. We also ascertained that there was an even smaller skeleton crew
at Station 6, but after that, the mountain was abandoned.
 |
| Onward Christian Soldiers! |
On the trail to Station 6 we came across a group of two dozen hikers. Even
from afar, it was clear few of them were in any shape to be hiking. A few were
children, but most of the adults looked as though they'd be exhausted climbing
an escalator. A third of them were standing, hunched forward, hands on knees,
gasping for air. The rest barely moved faster than stand-still.
We watched a girl fall to her hands and knees. She was young and loud and
wanted to hide the obvious fact that she was suffering altitude sickness. Instead
of turning back or resting, she continued onward, crawling. When people
encouraged her to stop and rest she went "pffffft" and laughed as if
this was a big joke and she crawled places all the time for shits and giggles.
When she noticed her group cringing with discomfort she sprung to her feet
and started sprinting up the trail, tilting all the time.
It was a frightening thing to watch.
Though green in the face and struggling for air, she wasted her breath
continuously and maniacally pronouncing : "look, look, I'm fine, really,
look!"
"I bet she's gonna go down real hard."
Sarah looked concerned. "Ya she is," she agreed. "Let's try
and pass her real quick. I don't want to get spewed on".
We came upon another group several minutes later of equal numbers. This
group looked much healthier. There were no children, only teens and adults in
good shape. They stood waiting at a bend in the trail.
Sarah and I stopped to chat, thinking perhaps we'd found a good group to
climb with.
"You folks going to the top?" I asked.
A slouching teenage boy answered for the group, "nah, we're just here
to see the Station 6 crater."
"Where is it?" I asked looking around, trying to peer through the
heavy fog.
"It's not here," he laughed, "it's up a little ways ahead.
We're waiting for the rest of our group."
"About two dozen?"
"Yeah, that sounds right".
"They might be a while," I informed him.
He, and several other group members nodded knowingly.
We left them there. They disappeared on the trail behind us, swallowed in
heavy fog. They were the last group of hikers we'd see the rest of our climb.
Soon after, a two-storied shack appeared out of the fog.
I opened the door, unsure if this was Station 6. There were two empty
postcard stands by the door. The rest of the room was bursting with cardboard
boxes. They were stacked high upon each other, some taped shut and some were
open and packed with dried foods, beer, postcards, gloves, hand warmers,
whistles. These same contents could also be found placed in prepared piles
around the room.
Three elderly women appeared from a small kitchen. Using "blunt force
English", a combination of basic phrases and desperate gesturing we were
able to secure dinner and lodging for the night.
They corralled us to a raised, wooden platform in the center of the room.
They poured us tea and then turned on a TV. They watched soap operas while they
went about slowly taking inventory of the pillared boxes. They hardly seemed to
notice us.
Sarah and I were in the same spot several hours later. The only difference
was that we had put on every article of clothing we owned. We were still
shivering.
Suddenly the door slid open and a thick, blond man stepped through the fog
and into the cabin. He wore only shorts and a t-shirt. He had very nice hiking
boots, though. Far superior to the tennis shoes that Sarah and I were wearing.
The spatial demands of the situation forced us into getting to know each
other.
His name was Jon. He was English, but he'd moved to America several years
prior to live with his girlfriend. He worked doing something or other for Reuters.
Jon hadn't known any better than us that the Southern side of the mountain
was closed.
"I figured it out though. Cause I saw no hikers. And there's lots of
snow." He explained briskly.
Jon was friendly enough, but he was distant and he spoke shortly and
infrequently. When he did talk, it felt forced.
The old Japanese women turned off the T.V. at 7:00, at the end of the day's
last soap. They finally made eye contact with us and then pointed up the
stairs. We followed them into a spacious loft. It had nearly a hundred
mattresses, all stuffed together like sardines. Yet the three beds they'd made
up for me, Sarah, and Jon were all right next to each other.
"Heh," Jon murmured Britishly, "I guess we'll be cozy
tonight."
* * *
I wouldn't have been able to sleep at 7 anyways. But my awakeness was
aggravated by a certain hulking Englishman who snored constantly and farted
every ten minutes like clockwork.
I gave up on sleep and decided to pass the time playing games on my phone.
I discovered that I still had 4G.
"This modern world!" I whispered.
I researched the records of deaths on Mt. Fuji. Twelve people had died in
the last year. All male. Mostly foreigners. All had climbed in the off-season.
My anxiety grew in the silent darkness, only to be offset by my hushed giggles
when Jon farted.
Sarah and I planned to start climbing just before midnight, which left me
hours to myself as she and Jon slept. We'd asked Jon if he wanted to climb with
us. Jon had asked us when, and when we told him, he said he'd planned to climb
a little later than that. I don't think he wanted to climb with us and I must
say that Sarah and I were discretely pleased.
I watched out the window as the fog roll by. Once while I watched, and only
briefly, the fog cleared. Far off and far below I saw the lights of town. It
looked like no more than a child's glow-in-the-dark pegboard. As I watched the
fog roll off the mountain and far over that town I realized it was not fog at
all, but clouds.
At an hour to midnight I shook Sarah awake. We packed our bags, silently,
letting Jon slumber.
Outside the night was frigid and cut through my insufficient layers.
I followed the trail with my head lamp, Sarah with her flashlight. Only
forty yards up the mountain we came to an impasse. A tall gate stood before us.
It was covered in brightly colored signs which presumably begged us to
reconsider our off-season climb. I wandered off trail until my headlamp spotted
the end of the fence.
"Shoulda built a bigger fence," We scampered around. The trail quickly steepened.
After half an hour of climbing, the inevitable happened. I saw a distant
head lamp coming up the trail.
"Jon's coming!" I proclaimed. Sarah halted, looked down the
mountain, and began bolting up the mountain.
No one likes awkward social situations. Especially when they involve full
day, or night, hikes with a total stranger. I'm no exception. But Sarah lives
her life making a concerted, fearful effort to avoid these situations in the
same way small children take a running jump from their bed when they get up to
avoid their toes being eaten by the fanged monster waiting underneath.
Moving quickly was a problem. With all the rubble of pumice, traction was a
difficult issue and our legs tired quickly. Jon, with his fancy hiking boots,
was gaining on us.
We played this game of pursuit for nearly an hour before our grueling drive
came to a halt. The trail had disappeared. In its place was a massive bed of
ice and snow, sweeping down the mountain like a frozen river. It was wide and
steep and we stood on one side of its shore and the trail continued on the
other side.
We shone our lights up and down the frozen river, but it seemed to go up
and down indefinitely. There was no way to go around.
Along the steepest parts of the trail there had been a rope, strung between
waist-high wooden posts, to hold onto. Here the rope and posts were being
swallowed by the torrent of snow. Only twenty feet out, they were so buried
that they'd only be of use to someone crawling. Which is exactly what we
decided to do.
We took off our bags and put on our rain pants over our blue jeans. Sarah
had bought our rain gear at the 100 yen store - (Japan's equivalent of the 99
cent store). I have little confidence in 100 yen store products. Sarah once bought a
sleeping mask from the 100 yen store and the next morning her eyes were swollen
from a mask-shaped rash. She also bought a ribbon of flypaper from the 100 yen
store. I watched, one time, as a fly landed on the trap's "sticky" surface
and proceeded to crawl up and down the length of the ribbon several times
before losing interest and flying away. After one month there was a single fly
on the ribbon. I believe that it likely died of natural causes, in a peaceful
slumber.
By the time I'd gotten both feet through the legs of my rain paints there
was already a tear running from calf to groin. Somewhere in the back of my mind there was a boyscout's voice reciting the
dangers of wet clothing in frigid weather.
More immediately, I was absolutely
terrified of crossing the frozen torrent. As steep as it was, a single slip
would likely send us sweeping down the side of the mountain. As icy as it was,
there'd be no way to slow the momentum of the fall except with violent,
repeated contact with the ice.
I led first. I kept the rope uphill of me, firmly grasped in my left hand.
I held the walking staff in my right hand and used it for additional support on
my downhill side. Sarah just clung, hands and torso to the rope.
Less than a
quarter of the way through our crossing we dropped to our butts to stay level
with the increasingly buried rope. We inched across on our behinds.
It didn't take long to realize that the increase body contact with the
slope was melting the snowfall and slickening the icy incline. Even sitting
still I could feel myself losing the grip of the mountain.
At this point, panicking, we strongly considered turning around. Sarah was
the main proponent of this idea. I, on the other hand, for whatever reasons the
gods deemed necessary, was never equipped with any sense of self preservation
and was quite fine pressing ahead. However, for my love of Sarah I was open to
turning back.
We debated the right course of action as we slid forward, off the spots
melted by our body heat. And by the time we agreed a retreat was the wisest
course of action we realized we'd already crossed the midway point.
During the worst parts of crossing, I used my walking staff to smash the
ice and snow into little footholds for Sarah and myself. This process was slow
and laborous, but it helped us to eventually reach the other side.
We continued on, happy to be on the shifty volcanic rubble once again. We
had about fifteen minutes of celebrating our fording of the ice river before
the trail began to double back. Five minutes later we were staring again,
across that same steep, slick, ice river.
"Fuuuuuuuuuuck," Sarah droned.
"Ya," I added.
Up here, the mountain face was steeper, the ice bed was wider, and there
was not a post or rope in sight.
"Shiiiiiiiiiit," Sarah continued.
"Shit," I agreed.
"Boy, I'll say," Jon said.
We spun around to find the Englishman not arms reach behind us. Sneaky,
that one.
"Hello, again," Jon added.
We stood agape.
I managed to ask, "how'd you like crossing the ice the first
time?"
"Not much," he said. Then he nodded in confirmation. And with
that he began stamping footholds with his fancy boots and making his way
across.
I followed behind and used my stick and shoes to widen the ledges for Sarah
behind me.
Jon seemed to have a hard time, as well. But whereas Sarah and I were
huffing and grunting, Jon, ever the Englishman, kept a stiff and silent
upperlip.
At one point, Sarah stepped into a foothold which suddenly collapsed. She
quickly balanced herself on her back foothold to avoid being swept down the
sheer face of Fujisan. She gripped her body weight to the side of the mountain,
but the foothold in front of her was gone and she had no way to turn her body
and reverse direction the way she came. The snow and ice beneath her was
loosening.
I stamped my feet several times, compacting the snow and ice of my
footholds to strengthen them. I hunched to my knees and I stuck my ass back
into the mountain as far as I could to counter the weight the weight of my arms
and torso as I lurched forward. I reached my left arm towards Sarah as far as
it would go and then extended my walking staff until it could just reach her.
She grabbed on.
"Here we go," and I swung her over to the safe footholds next to
me.
Now we can never know for sure if the foothold upon which she'd stood
collapsed mere milliseconds after I pulled her away, but I like to think it did
when I replay it in my head. Also I'm a young Harrison Ford.
We found Jon waiting for us on the other side. His back was turned and his
headlamp shone forward. In the light I could see that somehow we'd crossed onto
the roof of a building. Below my feet were tile shingles.
"I think we made it to Station 7," Sarah noted.
"I think we made it on Station 7," I corrected.
Jon nodded.
Our flashlights pieced together our situation: Station 7 was two stories
tall, plus an elevated base and the building was positioned so that the roof
slanted uphill and downhill on respective sides. The trail was downhill of
Station 7 and over a story below us. Station 7 was also nestled into the steep
mountain-side which meant there was no way to hike up-hill to reconnect with
the path. And because the glacial river, itself raised off the mountain face, was
encroaching right up to Station 7, the only way to hike downhill to the path
would to be to try and slide down the icy, sheer slope.
I shared my observations with Sarah and Jon, "We can either try and
slide on our asses down that icy waterfall to get back to the trail or we can
try and jump onto it from here."
We peered over the roof again to confirm what a bad idea jumping would be.
Even at the lowest point of the roof, the ground was about a story down.
Furthermore, the trail below was so narrow that a little too much momentum from
the fall might cause a roll that could take you right off the trail's edge and
down the mountain face.
"I didn't like the snow much." Jon remarked. We all agreed.
Then Jon crept to the edge of the roof and let himself drop.
"OK!" He hollered from below. "There's a trash bin here to break
the fall."
We located it with our head lamp and then I followed suit. I hit the trash
can with too much momentum, rolling off it and onto the ground. Luckily, the
deep pumice slowed me down. Jon helped me up. I helped up Sarah.
 |
| This picture was taken at this same spot, on our descent. You can see Station 7, the trail, and the icy slope. |
From there on we hiked faster. We'd fallen behind schedule during the ice
crossing.
Often, Jon would take a lead and then wait for us at a comfy rock or a rest
station. We'd drink water and share dried fruit and Tengu-brand beef jerky.
Then Jon would head out again, while we finished catching our breath. But we
always stayed close enough that we could see each other's lights and call out
if need be. After the earlier perils, I think we all took comfort in this.
As we approached Station 8, the sea of clouds abruptly parted. All at once,
the night sky was there. Constellations stretched vastly above us, untouched by
any light except ours and their own. The Milky Way really did look fluid. The
stars did, too, and suddenly it was as if they were all blurring together,
melting across my vision, and then everything went far away. Even my body. The
ground seemed to be shifting and jumping up at me and I slumped over onto a
large rock. All I could hear was the throbbing of my head and shallow, rapid
gasps for air.
Sarah recognized my altitude sickness and stayed behind with me.
Unfortunately, the only remedy we had available was more water, dried fruit,
and Tengu-brand beef jerky. The rest of the climb is as blurry in my memory as
was my vision of the night-sky.
There were long long flat passes of rubble and red, chalky dust. There was
a steep climb up a titanic mountain staircase. Each stair was a boulder, knee
or waist high. During the worst of this climb I'd stop after every rock to gulp
air.
I remember Sarah looking after me. I remember Jon telling a story about a
week he'd spent climbing in the Himalayas. He'd had to spend three days in
Kathmandu confined to a hotel room while acclimated. Everything he'd eaten had
to be brought to him as he'd been unable to even go up or down a few flights of
stairs.
I remember approaching the last station, Station 9.5. I remember wondering
why they didn't just call it Station 10. And I remember that things were
becoming less dark.
A warm glow crested over the mountain and there, finally, we could see the
summit. Our pace quickened. We were energized by the light and the race to see
catch the sunrise.
Then I remember seeing the final slope. It was nearly vertical. It was all
snow and ice. Unlike before, we weren't crossing from one side to another.
Rather, it was a straight climb from bottom to top.
We dragged ourselves vertically for a hundred feet or so, when suddenly and
unexpectedly found ourselves standing on evened rubble with tread marks running
through it. The dawn light showed it to be a long path, circling around the
summit. In the distance we could see it trailed off toward what appeared to be
a small station on the summit with meteorological instruments on its roof, while still in
front of us, the vertical ascent continued over snow and ice for several
hundred more feet.
"I think we found a vehicle access road," Sarah said. "It's
probably private, but -"
"Well," Jon interrupted, "I don't like the snow so much,
so-"
"Uhhhhhrrrrrrhhhhhh" I added, forgetting to focus on my breathing.
And so it was decided. Our final ascent to the summit would be a scamper
along a soft, gradual vehicle access road.
 |
| Jon and Daniel. Not pictured: Pride. |
Though I was still sick and disoriented, the terrain became so much easier
that it felt like we were skipping the closing distance. As the sun came up I
felt kissed by angels and could hear gentle, welcoming greetings. When I asked
Sarah who was talking to us, she looked concerned and said "no one".
Despite hallucinating, gasping for air, and being all around miserable, I
was happy. I was happy just to have made it. The sun had already been up for
fifteen minutes, but it didn't matter.
Far below us the clouds swirled around us like calm waves lapping at the
mountain and ebbing back toward the horizon. It was only clouds as far as the
eye could see.
Sarah took out her camera to capture the stunning view, I took out my
phone.
I took a photo. Then I noticed, "it looks like we get internet up here," I told Sarah. "But
it's only 3G, but still, this modern world..."
We stood atop Fujisan, 12,388 feet, the highest point in Japan, and I
finally did what I'd felt I needed to do for a long time through that night. I
peed. A lot. All over the world below.
"You are a fool to not climb Mt. Fuji once, and you are a fool to
climb Mt. Fuji twice, but if you do climb, you are very wise to take vehicle
access roads when available." -Japanese proverb, addendum (2014).
