I love climbing mountains. Not scaling them with picks,
harnesses, bags of chalk and the like. No, I love climbing mountains mountain
goat style. Climbing with my feet, and maybe a walking stick. It is an
incomparable experience. One that I have had the pleasure of experiencing
several times in my lifetime. I have climbed mountains in the Vosges mountain
range in Alsace, France; meandered along some trails in the Swiss Alps;
survived a gravity-defying bus-ride part way up Mount Vesuvius in Italy,
completing the rest of the journey on foot; and climbed the tallest mountain in
Japan in the black of night with the moon as my guide. It is this last
experience that I thought I would share in this post.
Mount Fuji is a majestic mountain whose snow-capped peak
can be seen from miles on a clear day. I know this because I spent an entire
year of my life living in a “small” town called Fujinomiya which is nestled
snugly into the base of this symbolic mountain. On a bright, sunny day I could
see the mountain from my balcony and I spent more than one lazy afternoon
basking in its impressiveness.
Mount Fuji is snow-capped for about ten months of the
year, therefore it is only “climb-able” for two, July and August. I had made it
a goal of mine to climb the mountain before I had even stepped foot on Japanese
soil. It was “the thing to do” in all the guidebooks. A tourist mecca of sorts
and a must-do by all accounts. When I learned that I was going to be living in
such close proximity to the mountain, I figured I really didn’t have a choice.
I would no doubt be ridiculed by all if I didn’t climb this mountain. So I
began making my plans not long after my January arrival into the country.
Living in a foreign country can be challenging. A challenge
that I enjoy and have embraced on more than one occasion. But a challenge
nonetheless. When August rolled around, I had been immersed in a foreign
culture for several months. I was learning the language and becoming accustomed
to being the only white person in a city of several hundred thousand (something
that I will write about in greater detail in another post). But I was also
missing home, and the comforts it entails. I needed a challenge, an experience,
something to write home about. So I decided on a date and gathered my gear for
the journey.
As it turned out, that particular August day was a
beautiful one. The air was humid and heavy, as is typical in a Japanese summer
but the sky was clear and shockingly blue. I hopped on a bus that took me to a
lodge at the base of the mountain. I was able to grab a light nourishing dinner
of miso soup and plain rice and I also picked up what was to soon become my
most valued possession for the next 24 hours. My walking stick. A plain wooden
staff nearly as tall as I was and adorned with a red ribbon at the top. From
each end of the ribbon hung a silver bell, whose music would accompany and
inspire me throughout the night.
It was just after dinner when I first set out to climb
the mountain. The sun had a few hours left but not many. It wasn’t long before
it set below the horizon and my climb became more of a sensory exploration.
After the sun set, the stars came out and the moon became my sun. Some fellow
climbers had chosen to bring a flashlight but I had opted not to. A decision I
would have surely regretted had it not been such a clear night.
The terrain shifted periodically, the higher I climbed.
From grass, to dirt, to rock, to gravel, to shale as I neared the top. The shale
reminded me that I was, in fact, on a volcano. A dormant one, but a volcano nonetheless. A really cool visual of lava boiling and
burning beneath my feet was a constant in my thoughts during the climb, however
unrealistic it may be. Speaking of cool,
the temperature also changed. The higher I climbed, the more layers came out of
the backpack. I was pretty bundled up by the time I reached top.
Climbing a mountain is a solitary endeavour. I set out at
the base with a group of people that I knew, but as we climbed, we went our separate
ways, climbing at different speeds and hoping to take away different things
from the experience. When I set out, I had hoped to come away with the prestige
and pride of having climbed the famous “Fuji-san”, a suffix used to denote
respect. I soon saw why it had earned that name, and that mountain certainly has my respect. What I
didn’t expect was for the experience to have a profound emotional and spiritual
effect on me.
You know what it is like to walk in the dark. You pick
your way carefully along your path, always watching the shadows. Except, on a
volcano’s mountainside, with a full moon and a clear night sky, there are no
shadows. Once my eyes adjusted to the amount of light being shed on my world,
it became the norm and didn’t seem very dark. I climbed in a perpetual twilight
state. Periodically, I would look down the side of the mountain and could see lights bobbing as the flashlights snaked along the trail below me.
There were many climbers, but I was generally by myself.
I would occasionally pass a straggler, or be overcome by an over- zealous
climber. More rarely, I would meet someone on their way back down, these
usually being people that had been obliged to turn back; whether because of
altitude sickness, or physical or mental fatigue. I am sometimes my
own best friend, and have no problem being alone with my thoughts. So I spent
much of my time thinking. For some reason, being on this particular
mountainside, with the sound of my own breathing and the tinkling of hundreds of
bells as my soundtrack, my thoughts were deeper and more introspective than
they normally are. That’s not to say that I don’t occasionally have profound
thoughts. I have my moments. But I don’t often find myself pondering my
existence in relationship to the universe, my impact on said universe and my
purpose in life. That night I found myself in that state often, though. I
can’t say that I reached any earth-shattering conclusions. But I did have some
personal revelations.
I would occasionally sit for a break along the trail.
During one such break, when I was about three quarters of the way up, I sat
facing the general direction of Tokyo. I know that that is where I was facing
not because of my compass reading skills, but because of the glow. Tokyo was a
fair distance away, but a city of that size, viewed from an unobstructed height
casts a glow that could likely be seen from space. Certainly from where I sat.
I got out my water, carefully laid my stick in the shale beside me, and leaned
back on my pack. There, on that mountain, with the world stretched out before me,
visible for miles, I found peace. As I watched the specks of light of the
climbers below me and listened to the tinkling of their bells, I relaxed. I
closed my eyes and imagined my relatively tiny body, alone on a mountainside in
a foreign land of a foreign world, and I felt insignificant. In a good way. All
the stress and worries that had been plaguing me fell away. They seemed so
small. A calm descended over me and a sense of perspective came to me that I like to think I have
held onto over the years since. It is a rare thing to be able to pinpoint in
your life when exactly it is that you grew up. For me, that was it. The climb
up Mount Fuji changed me. I am forever grateful for that.
The journey to the top of Fuji-san took hours. About twelve
hours in total, I think. Aside from the fifteen minute pauses here and there, I
climbed non-stop that whole time. My goal had been to reach the top in time for
sunrise. Where better to see the sun greet another day than in the land of the
rising sun? I was paranoid that I wouldn’t make it in time, so I pushed myself
throughout the night.
Several huts are strewn about the mountainside along the
path. Climbers can choose to stop and rest at these huts and stay the night
even, if they have the right gear. The huts are manned by a seasonal resident,
with a welcoming fire burning outside. The fire was multi-purpose. Not only did
it provide a warm place for people to gather, exchange stories and bond, but it
also heated the brands that were used to mark the sticks as you progress up the
mountain. Each hut (or station) branded your walking stick, and let you know
how far up the mountain you had come... And consequently how far you had left to
go. The residents offered words of encouragement and praise. My confidence grew
as my stick became increasingly covered with blackened brands. I was doing it,
I was climbing a world renowned mountain and finding myself in the process.
I made it to the top of that mountain. I made it with
only minutes to spare before sunrise. Most of my group had made it also. Some
back slaps and words of praise were exchanged and then we turned to what we had
come to do: watch the sun rise. It is funny. I unconsciously drifted off to be
on my own for this moment. When I glanced around at my “companions”, I found
that they had all done the same. Some things are best done alone. As the big
ball of fire rose, blazing red, in the sky, I stared. I’m pretty sure you aren’t
supposed to do that, but I did. I couldn’t help myself. I snapped a few pics,
to try and capture the moment, but you can’t bottle emotion. When I look at those
pics, I see those memories, but to everyone else, it is a sunrise plain and
simple.
When the sun was firmly over the horizon, I rose, dusted
myself off and mentally prepared myself for the descent. Before going down, I cruised
around the volcanic crater a bit; bought an exorbitantly priced hot chocolate
which burned my tongue and annoyed me the whole way down; and mailed some
postcards to family. That’s right, there’s a post office at the top of Mount
Fuji.
The descent took less time, but was more physically
gruelling than the ascent. My knees absorbed the impact of my body weight
climbing down a mountain for hours, and by the time I reached the bottom, I was
fairly certain that they would never forgive me. I had been awake and moving
for over 24 hours. I leaned heavily on my walking stick and needed a hot meal.
But I walked away from that mountain with a clarity I had not previously
possessed. Every blister and sore muscle was completely worth it.
When recounting my experience to a Japanese friend, I
contemplated out loud climbing it again, the next summer. She rolled her eyes and shook her head, laughing, then informed me: “Everybody climbs the mountain once.
Only a fool climbs it twice.” The adventure had been so amazing and so profound,
that stupidly I had hoped to repeat it. But of course, she was right. It wasn’t
something that could be repeated. It was what it was and it will always be
that.
