Greetings, fellow adventurers! Pull up a virtual seat, and let me take you on a journey back in time – a time when my idea of conquering Mt Fuji went from “bucket list dream” to “couch potato calamity.” Fasten your mountain climbing belts; we’re diving into the tale of how (not) to climb Mt Fuji.
We were almost at the top! So close! And I was almost at death’s door… So close. I didn’t know if I was going to make it.
Mt Fuji - The Dream
Picture this: Japan, 2003. Fresh off the boat, or rather, the plane, I was 23 and had just started teaching English in Japan. Wide-eyed and looking to explore the world, I found myself among a lively training group at the CENSORED language school (gotta keep some mysteries in life, eh?). Amidst this motley crew, I befriended Stu and Sonia, a Canadian couple with an insatiable appetite for adventure. Little did I know that their enthusiasm for mountain climbing would drag me into an (mis)adventure of epic proportions.
The adventure? Climbing Mt Fuji – the peak of Japanese pilgrimages. It’s something that everyone should probably do once in their life, right? “A wise man climbs Mt. Fuji,” they say. So naturally, it skyrocketed to the top of my must-do list. So when I heard Stu and Sonia wanted to do it, I told them to sign me up too!
Now, what normal people do when climbing Mt Fuji is: in the summer or early fall, hikers stay at a hostel in the town below Mt Fuji (like Fujinomiya), take a bus up to the midway point on Mt. Fuji (the “5th station”), hike up with the hundreds of others lined up the mountain, stop at the various break spots littered with stalls to help alleviate the hike, and arrive at the summit (the “1st station”) after about 5-8 hours. Millions of people have done it. Easy peasy!
That’s NOT what I did.
Not because I’m some ambitious athletic nut or something. Nope. I’m just an ordinary old couch potato who was dumb enough NOT to think things through.
Getting Ready
Not knowing much about the journey (or the details I just mentioned), I found myself nodding along as Stu and Sonia unveiled their grand plan. I just smiled without a clue when they mentioned something about a “traditional pilgrimage.” And so, with that nod and grin, I unwittingly took the first step on my rocky trail of missteps.
It wasn’t long until the time to visit Mt. Fuji arrived. October, 2003. Cue misstep number two. Because I later discovered that October is NOT climbing season for Mt. Fuji. But hey, we had bus tickets, a reserved hostel, and an unquenchable thirst for adventure, so what could possibly go wrong? Spoiler alert: a lot.
As the departure date approached, excitement bubbled within our training group. The prospect of our first significant journey in Japan was on everybody’s minds (instead of things we should have been thinking about, like, teaching). And I was ready. I couldn’t wait. So the night before the big adventure, I decided to ignore the runny nose and soar throat I was getting. I thought, ‘I’m young. Mind over matter.’ Cue misstep 3.
The Journey Begins
The journey began with the buzz of anticipation. The overnight bus from Osaka to Shizukoka was a proper overnight bus. Big, reclining seats, check. Everything you need for an 8 hour bus ride through the night, check. It wasn’t in the slightest like some of these ‘overnight buses’ I’ve taken that were little more than a converted city bus. Perfect, right? Well, I can’t sleep on an airplane, so guess what. I found out that I can’t sleep on over night buses either (misstep 47, now?).
As the first light of morning spread across the dew-laced forests and fields, we arrived in a small town at the base of Mt. Fuji. The name eludes me now, but what I do remember is the drizzle, the magic, and the mist that clung to the air – a poetic start to our legendary journey. And then it hit me – my cold had morphed into a full-blown nemesis.
But I ignored it. We were going to climb Mt. Fuji! So we quickly found our youth hostel – a charmingly barebones establishment with bunk beds and a communal bath, the kind that makes for great stories but not necessarily great comfort. We then spent the rest of the day prepping for the adventure of a lifetime.
And what exactly was the grand plan of a “traditional pilgrimage? Well, it meant climbing up ALL 10 stations, from the base of Mt. Fuji, from the very 1st station (not the aforementioned 5th station). We’d then hike all the way up and reach the summit at sunrise – the picturesque view a grand reward for our efforts. It was a beautiful plan. And one I never thought through.
The Ascent (part 1)
The next day, it was the day! We were going to conquer Mt. Fuji! So in the afternoon, we ventured to Kitaguchi Hongu Fuji Sengen Shrine, nestled in the enchanting forest at the foot of the mountain. Despite my cold, the picturesque shrine and its surroundings filled me with a sense of awe. We were off to a good start, or so I thought.
As we ascended, station by station, through the breathtaking forest, a peculiar realization dawned on me – the distinct lack of fellow hikers. Practically no one crossed our path, leaving me to ponder the significance of our solitude.
It wasn’t until we found ourselves walking along the side of the highway that the truth emerged as we asked question after question. Where was the trail? Was this the right way? It turns out, in the modern era, sensible folk don’t embark on their Fuji journey from the first station. Like I said before, people start from the 5th station. One of the reasons is that starting from the 1st Station adds an extra 5 hours to your hike! Oops.
As daylight faded, and night began to sink in, I realized the second reason we saw so few people hiking. It was cold. Damn cold. That’s because the hiking season ENDED a month ago.
Now I had a jacket. I had TRIED to prepare. But I’m from Southern California. We’re spoiled. We don’t really know what “cold” feels like. It’s not part of our vocabulary. So I didn’t have a proper winter jacket. And it gets cold out of season on Fuji, especially the higher you get. So none of the temperature hijinks was good for my cold.
By the time we reached the 5th station, my body was in open rebellion. A fever had set in, and I was contemplating the life choices that led me to that chilly point in my life. Luckily, our grand plan included a strategic pitstop at a small lodge for a bit of shut-eye. Unluckily, we were planning to start again a little after midnight in order to make a sunrise summit. So we only had maybe three hours to sleep. But for the smart people without colds, it was enough time to get a nice little recharge before heading out again.
The Ascent (part 2)
The resumption of our journey saw me feeling less than stellar. Yet, driven by a stubborn determination and a “no turning back now” mindset, we trudged forward onto the trail. The chill was palpable. And it was pitch black. All vegetation stopped pretty abruptly and we were soon on an alien landscape, only rocks and darkness as far as the eye could see.
Here’s where things got wild. Typically, Mt. Fuji resembles a bustling escalator queue during peak season, people lining up, in the hundeds up the trail that zig-zags up the mountain. But we found ourselves in a lonely, frozen landscape with less than ten fellow nocturnal hikers.
The trail itself wasn’t too tough. I mean, it wasn’t rock climbing, you didn’t need ropes or equipment. But as hikes go, it wasn’t a walk in the cherry blossom-filled park either. Hands and knees came into play, breaks were essential, and my exhaustion was compounded by the frigid conditions and the fever apprehending my body. On a normal day, I could have powered through (I had hiked up a number of smaller mountains before), sore but triumphant. That night, however, was a different story.
To make matters worse, every stall that usually pockmarked the trail was closed. Stations that offered respite, oxygen, and water during the hiking season were non-existent. The irony of my situation hit hard – I was freezing, fatigued, feverish, and faced with a Fuji that didn’t want me on it.
So there I was, emotionally (and physically) resembling a pancake that had been run over by Godzilla. I continued my ascent, physically and emotionally squished. And I felt terrible for being in that situation. You see, dear reader, I had unwittingly become the party pooper on Stu and Sonya’s grand Fuji adventure. They had visions of a spirited hike up the legendary peak, and there I was, a walking embodiment of regret. They were kind and never let on, they even helped me up. But I knew. And I felt bad about holding them back.
The Summit?
We were almost at the top! So close! And I was almost at death’s door (or at least I am in this overly dramatic retelling of the event). So close. I didn’t know if I was going to make it. Then at the 9th station – a beacon of hope emerged. A small lodge! And it was open! I practically lunged at the chance to collapse and recover. Without a second thought, I asked my intrepid companions to soldier on without me, and I nestled into the warmth of the cramped hut, surrounded by a dozen or so fellow defeated hikers.
A few hours later, as Stu and Sonia triumphantly returned, their faces aglow with the sunrise summit glory, I lay there, a limp dough of fever, self-pity and sore everything. I had managed a few hours of sleep, but my fever still clung to me like a persistent souvenir from Fuji’s chilly embrace. Yet, duty called – it was time to descend.
As I exited the hut, I got my first glimpse of the view from Fuji in the daylight. It was nothing short of spectacular. Above the clouds, a sea of puffy cotton stretched endlessly, and the mountainside was a rocky, Martian dreamscape. Surreal doesn’t quite capture the majesty of it all. But it was time to leave. Despite my unfulfilled conquest, I happily trotted down, descending into the land of buses, hostels, and tales of Fuji woe.
The descent, a mere 3-4 hours compared to the uphill saga, brought us to the fifth station, where we hopped on a bus to our next haven. It was a trip etched in memory – the trip I didn’t summit Mt. Fuji.
And so, Fuji stands there, unconquered by yours truly. As I reflect on that icy misadventure, a lingering thought tugs at me – should I give it another go before I’m too old, relying on oxygen like a wheezing centenarian? Perhaps, but there is a second half to that old Japanese proverb I mentioned, and I wholeheartedly believe it – “A wise man will climb Mt. Fuji. Only a fool will climb it twice.”
Until the next misadventure calls, keep your spirits high, your fever low, and remember, sometimes it’s the journey, not the summit, that makes the story unforgettable. Sayonara for now, and stay foolishly adventurous.
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*I don’t use AI for my artwork. These filler images are just for fun and aren’t meant to represent my art so they have been labeled “AI GENERATED.” I want my blog to be enjoyable for you but I don’t have 2-6 hours to draw each image (this blog is done in my free time). If you’re against AI in art, please direct your criticism elsewhere (maybe someone trying to pass off AI generated images as their art). I am not doing that.
OH, MY GOSH!!! How did I not know about this? Worse…if I did know…how could I have forgotten?? (I’m going with I didn’t know. But if I did know, please forgive me.) Anyway, this story is amazing, incredible. Thank you for sharing it! Maybe ascending Mt. Fuji again — but starting at Station 5 — wouldn’t be too crazy?