A wise man climbs Mt. Fuji once, a fool climbs it twice – Japanese proverb
Although the climbing season for Mt. Fuji ended this week, I feel like now is a good time to share my experience. As usual, I like a little time between the “doing” and the “telling.” I plan to put out a list of tips together for next years climbing season. But for now, I hope you’ll enjoy a retelling of my great adventure.
As some of you may already know, hiking is not my go-to activity. Growing up with allergies meant many outdoor activities weren’t fun or comfortable, so I opted for indoor stuff. But I told myself last year I wanted to “get into shape” and hike Mount Fuji. It seems like something one should do when living in Japan, and there’s no telling when I would get the chance again. I put it off last year, telling myself I was still adjusting to life here and maybe if I went to the gym more regularly, the climb would be easier. I didn’t – so it wasn’t – but I did the hard thing anyway.
Getting Ready
My Fuji experience was a bit different than your average climber. Vicki planned to climb it for the second year in a row (#crazypants #badass) and was joining a group of Japanese Girl Scouts. Naturally, when she invited me to go along, I said yes. We spent a night at a youth center in Gotemba, sleeping in tents and singing songs around a campfire. Our group of 20 consisted of a mix of girls and adults, with the youngest landing somewhere around eight years old.
For most of the trip, Vicki and I focused on going with the flow. We knew little about the schedule or what to expect and this caused my anxiety to skyrocket. Often, for me, knowledge is power, and the more I know, the more empowered I feel. When I’m anxious, it’s hard for me to switch my mindset and get out of whatever emotional funk I’m in. Worst-case scenarios kept coming to my mind, and try as I might, I couldn’t switch my focus to something more positive. Am I carrying too many things? It all seems necessary. Is my bag too heavy? Will I even be able to finish the climb? Thankfully, Husband (and Vicki) were very patient with me. I keep hoping more experiences like this will help me be more flexible and ready to go with the flow.
The logistics of hiking Mount Fuji aren’t easy, no matter if you’re climbing with a group or solo. There are four routes up to Fuji’s summit, each offering a different view and challenge. The population of hikers expected on each trail varies widely. Weather patterns on the mountain can shift unexpectedly, and quickly, and being prepared can be a challenge. Our group, like many others, chose to spend the night on the mountain. Resting overnight will allow our bodies to adjust to the altitude before pushing on to the final ascent.
The Ascent, Part 1
We depart Girl Scout camp just before 9 am and take a winding road up to the 5th station of the Fujinomiya trail. At an altitude of 2,400m, this station alone requires some adjustment, so we hang out in the area for about an hour. Vicki and I take the opportunity to purchase a souvenir hiking stick and postcards. Each mountain hut on the trail will brand your hiking stick for a small fee. This is one of my motivations for making it to the top.
We push off and start our climb just after 10:30 am. As with most other adventures, I get butterflies in my stomach right before go time. It’s clear, to me at least, that I’m nervous and I struggle to get my trekking poles set up while walking to keep up with a group that is already on the move. And then, just like that, we’re in the line of other hikers, off on our great adventure.
I’ll be honest; I don’t remember much about the climb up. The first part of the trail is over uneven, rocky ground. Fist sized volcanic rock shifts easily under my feet. It’s not long before the sound of these rocks, almost like glass, becomes annoying background noise. Getting to the next station, station 6, isn’t overly difficult and is relatively quick. Our map lists estimated climbing times between stations, and already we know our time will be about twice as long. (How do they calculate that anyway? Who are they following – Olympic athletes? It seems unreasonable to expect me to go any faster than I already am.)
Before starting, Vicki and I made sure to tell one of the English-speaking adults that we are slow. We try to emphasize just how slow, but I’m not sure it gets across. Our theme for the hike is kame – Japanese for turtle. We are turtles. In case we become separated on the trail, we make sure to exchange phone numbers with one of the English-speaking adults. We figure we’ll see ya when we see ya.
Instead, he places us in the middle of our group, a new experience for me. I’m usually dead last, approaching the group feeling a bit defeated and embarrassed. But being in the middle is a whole new ball game. My hiking pace no longer feels like a hindrance to the group or me. I’m able to rest with everyone else. Usually, I’m behind, joining a group of people who have finished their break and are now anxious to move. This time, no one made me feel bad about being slow.
We take breaks often. Sometimes it’s to eat and sometimes simply to catch our breath. Once we start to move again, I feel great. But about ten steps later, I’m already breathing heavy. This altitude is no joke, and I’m grateful for the medicine Vicki has brought to share. Eventually, the trail terrain changes from loose rocks to more solid “steps.” Although it’s still not an easy climb, the sides of my feet are grateful for a change of pace. I’m grateful for my borrowed trekking poles.
The time in between each mountain hut increases, exacerbated by the groups’ (ok, my) need to stop and rest often. We hike in good weather for 6 hours before reaching our resting spot for the night, station 8. Apparently, those Olympic athletes hiking this trail would already be on their way down – the estimated time from station five, where we started, to the summit is 5 hours. HA!
Station 8 – A Welcome Rest
The station hut where we will spend the night is no-frills. When we arrive, we walk to a sleeping area at the end of a group of buildings. Everything here is long but not too wide – we are on the side of a mountain after all. The staff gives us the rundown of the rules, in Japanese, but we catch the gist from our teenage translators. Each bunk sleeps three. Our group will be called for dinner shortly. Lights go out at 8 pm. Roll up your sleeping bag if you eat or drink in your bunk.
Vicki and I end up in a top bunk with Amanda, an English-speaking 13-year-old. She’s been immensely helpful thus far in making sure we understand what’s going on. There’s not much to do, and I’m glad I carried all 5oz of Hanabi up the side of Fuji (another motivation to make it to this point). It’s not long before we’re called for dinner, and I already know what’s on the menu. It’s the same at every mountain hut — rice with Japanese curry and tea. The portions are small, and I eat slowly, both to help fill my belly and to keep nausea at bay. Dinner doesn’t last long, maybe 15 or 20 minutes, and I’m the last to leave the tatami mat.
We spend the evening playing Hanabi and writing postcards to mail at the summit. At one point, there’s a scramble as people make their way outside. The sun is setting behind the mountain, and Fuji is casting her shadow on the heavens and the earth. At first, I don’t see it. But walking the length of the hut gives the best view, and I buy another bottle of water while I snap some photos.
It’s not long before the lights go out and things settle down. Dark has settled in, and I grab my camera to take some photos before turning in for the night. Despite being tired, I don’t sleep well. Three to a bunk is tight, and I’m aware of everyone else’s positions each time I shift or rollover. Pillows aren’t provided, so I arrange my stuff sack of extra clothing under my head. It’s not ideal. The first round of hikers wakes at 12:45 am, meaning I’m awake too. Lights are turned on and our top bunk lets in more light than I’d like. It’s a restless night.
Onward and Upward
We awaken at 4:15 am, and the morning light is just beginning to break. The night before, we were instructed not to set any alarm clocks; someone will come around and wake us up. It’s not long before we realize our bunk was missed during the wake-up call. Some of our people are already waiting outside. Although I’d like to eat a snack before setting out, there is no time. I’m wearing the same clothing as yesterday; I chose to keep my extra clothing clean in case of bad weather. We join the group shortly and after a final headcount, start our final push to the summit at 4:50 am.
Our mountain hut is east facing, and we should be able to see the sunrise. Clouds and fog cling to the side of Fuji – no such luck today. That should have been my first clue that our second day of hiking would not be as pleasant as our first.
The first few steps up the trail are hard. My legs are tired and my arms are stiff but thankfully, not sore. It’s not long before I’m huffing, breathing heavily out of my mouth, snot running out of my nose. The weather is cold and damp. I’ve put on my raincoat and headwrap, finding myself both hot and cold. At station 9, it starts to rain. I pull out thin gloves, and it’s not long before they are soaked through, matching the rest of me. While hiking in the cloud cover has advantages, I could have done without the rain. Water pools on the trail and I try to tell myself the cold water collecting in my boots is warm ocean water. Instead of counting my steps, I imagine I’m at the beach. Warm and dry.
Our estimated climbing time to the summit is 2 hours, but it takes us three. At station 9.5, we hit our first big queue. It’s so long that I miss getting my hiking stick stamped. People are lined up three or four deep in front of the hut, waiting to descend, and I determine it’s not worth it. We pass by several old torii gates, coins wedged into the splintered wood or tossed on the ground nearby. The paint has long worn away. Although I’d like to pull out my camera, the rain is too heavy to risk it. And I don’t want to have to take off my pack or gloves to get it. So, I have no pictures from the morning – the rain and cold having deterred any desire to document the adventure.
Triumphant but Disappointed
Eventually, around 8 am, we make it to the top. The summit is a bit – disappointing. There’s no fanfare, no celebration, not even a sign marking our arrival. It’s raining here too, temperatures in the single digits, and we can see exactly nothing. It’s just as well I suppose; it’s too wet for pictures anyway. It feels no different than the trail, other than there’s nowhere else to go up. My heart sinks when I see two small buildings and realize there’s nowhere warm to sit and rest.
I make my way into the larger of the two buildings – a shrine – and wait to get a stamp for my hiking stick. Everyone else is here too; there is barely enough room to take my pack off. I’m dripping water and I can get only one glove off. I hold back tears, wanting to cry out of sheer overwhelm and disappointment. As I wait in line for my stamp, I start shaking with cold. To add insult to injury, the stamp at this station isn’t a branded mark like the others. It’s red ink, and I’m afraid it will run in the rain. Well – can’t do anything about it now.
From here, Vicki and I head to the post office. The room is small and narrow; half of me is waiting outside. We buy our stamps, and at the clerk’s instruction, I struggle to write “USA” on the address of all my cards. It looks like a child’s handwriting. It’s not warm in here, but it is dry, so we take our time collecting our things.
The Descent
After 40 minutes at the summit, it’s time to head back down. Vicki had told me earlier in the morning that we would be heading down a different trail. This knowledge is both a relief and anxiety-inducing. I’ve read about the trail we’re taking, and I’m not excited.
Gotemba trail is the least populated trail on Mt. Fuji and for good reason. The 5th station at the trailhead is the least developed of all the trails, and sitting at only 1,400m, it’s the farthest from the summit. Gotemba uses separate trails for ascending and descending, and both are full of loose rocks with little else. The trails separate just after station 7, and the path down is known as Osunabashiri or “great sand run.” I’ve seen pictures, and I already know this will be the hardest part of the whole adventure.
I relax a little during the first part of the descent. The terrain is much like the Fujinomiya trail, but not as steep or as crowded. If most of our journey down is like this, I’ll be ok. There are few loose rocks, and we move reasonably quickly, reaching our first station after about an hour. It’s here that the weather starts to level off and the sun peeks around the clouds. Everyone starts shedding layers and packing raincoats into bags. We sit for a bit and eat.
I had read there weren’t many huts on Gotemba descent, so when we hit several coming down, I was surprised. But from station 7, there’s nothing, and the trail terrain changes drastically. Loose sand and gravel stretch endlessly, and there’s little distinction between trail and not-trail. The descent, it turns out, is the hardest part for me. It’s not long before my knees ache and, despite my best efforts, I can no longer keep the tears at bay. I’m frustrated at my pain, disappointed that I can’t go faster, unconvinced that the rocks in my shoes are helping to exfoliate my feet. We are so far behind we don’t even see the group anymore (and you can see a pretty long way once the clouds clear). I’m miserable, and there is no end in sight.
Other hikers pass us, running down the sleep and sandy path. Even if I could run, rocks the size of my head are interspersed throughout, making it a risk I didn’t want to take. Trekking poles help me keep my balance, but I can only go so fast. The incline is significant, and walking becomes more like skating, one foot in front of the other, pressure on the heel, sliding forward until you hit resistance.
This trail seems never-ending, and the clouds that roll in obscure any view and leave us without any sense of where we are. It turns out it doesn’t matter – as the clouds roll back all we see is more black sand, stretching forever, with no markers and no place to stop. In places, it looks as if the trail levels out some, moving away from the intense downhill we’ve traveled so far. But as we get closer, we discover it’s a cruel optical illusion – we’re still going downhill, although maybe not as steeply as before.
As with other parts of the climb, I spend time continually reminding myself of what awaits me at the end: Dry clothes. Husband. Home. A shower. Never having to do this again. Admittedly maybe not the most positive motivations, but motivations, nonetheless.
Finally – We Did It!
Eventually, we arrive at the end. The mountain hut, our goal, has been in our sights for some time, but we didn’t seem to be getting any closer. And then, suddenly, here we are. It’s a welcome relief. So much so that I don’t even mind the 10-minute limping walk still ahead of us to the bus. Back at the car, I dump half the Fuji out of my ankle-high boots. (Funny note – when I knocked my boots out a few days later, MORE rocks fell out! I guess they became embedded in my insert).
Climbing Mt. Fuji was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. It feels good to have done it, but I’m glad it’s over. While I’m a little disappointed that I wanted to quit at the end, the disappointment doesn’t outweigh the pride I feel in completing the climb. Even on the drive home, I was already seeing the experience through rose-colored glasses.
Of course, I couldn’t have done with without Vicki. She was a champ, encouraging me when I felt winded, celebrating the small wins without seeming condescending, telling me stories when I desperately wanted the whole thing to be over. She’s real good people, and I’m glad to know her.
Although our summit experience wasn’t what we’d hoped, I suppose that how things sometimes are. You work hard for something, power through, and the payoff doesn’t look like what you imagined. I spent a few days after the hike sore to the core but also feeling like a badass. My Slytherin tattoo lasted a few days and reminded me of my ability to say yes to, and actually do, the hard things. So I guess the question now is – what next?