The Fujisan expedition: part one

"A wise man climbs Fuji once, but only a fool climbs it twice."
Anon

Sunday 13th August
I had not yet seen the mountain but I knew it was there. I passed it everyday on the train on my way to school. On a clear day it can be seen from the bridge as you cross over the river. Once or twice the air has cleared enough to reveal a bluish ridge of jagged mountains that hug the city's horizon and once I saw a sunset which illuminated a silvery rain storm above the peaks. Yet Fuji has remained elusive. I had been told I could not mistake it for any other mountain so every day I look. The skies above Tokyo are however, predictably opaque; a combination of low cloud and pollution. Even though I had not seen it I knew wanted to climb it. It seemed so familiar to me. The sacred mountain, the symbol of Nippon. I have seen it in a thousand pictures, it has been written about and talked about for centuries. It is mentioned in every guidebook and is one of the first images that spring to mind when one thinks of Japan - along with sushi, a red circle on white, geisha, pagodas, paddy fields and neon.

I was aware that it was climbing season but had done little to make any plans to actually organise an expedition. I continued to pass the mountain's invisible presence on my way to work and was beginning to wonder if it actually existed or whether it was a mythical volcano. Then one Thursday at the beginning of August at one of our regular 'stonecutters' nights, a friend of mine mentioned he was planning a hike up Fuji for the 13th. It was the perfect opportunity to see it at last, so I invited myself along and thus preparations for the climb commenced. I half wondered if it would pan out. A friend of a friend was supposed to be booking the bus tickets and I had none of the necessary items I would need for such an adventure. This needed quite a bit of planning and a little research on the internet revealed that this was not going to be a walk in the park. (Forgive me for stating the obvious!)

Fuji stands at 3,700 meters and is covered in ice and snow most of the year. The safest time of year to climb is in the months of July and August. I read that people die every year whilst on Fuji because they do not prepare adequately for the severe weather conditions that can be experienced even during summer. Temperatures regularly dip below freezing on the summit during the summer, so an ascent in shorts and a t-shirt is a big mistake. In addition to potentially unpleasant weather conditions, the air is very thin so you can suffer from altitude sickness. Saying this, I felt reassured by the fact that thousands of people climb Mt. Fuji every year. In fact during the busiest days of the July / August climbing season, over 20,000 people try to reach the top every day! Interestingly, 30% of them are foreigners. When I mentioned my plans to my Japanese students most of them reacted the same way "Learry?! But Fuji-san is dangerous I think. Fuji is for looking, not climbing!" Then we'd laughed about it and I'd say I would have a go. I don't think I any of my students have climbed it. When I asked Takafumi why he had never climbed it he roared with laughter and said "it's too far and too high!"

After my research I thought it best to make a list of things I needed. It looked like I would need more substantial footwear than flip-flops, and would require at least a ruck-sack and gloves. On the Monday before the hike I went shopping in Tachikawa with a friend. On the 6th floor of a large 'outdoors' shop I suddenly felt a mixture of nerves and excitement come over me. I was going to climb the highest mountain in Japan - at night! Maybe I needed to buy proper walking boots? I mean the terrain was going to be rugged volcanic rock. Should I invest in a canister of oxygen, I wondered? I mean the air was going to be pretty thin at the top. I perused the selection of ruck-sacks that had tags dangling off them with pictures of colourful figures gripping onto sheer rock faces against blue skies. "I should get one of these bags", I thought to myself. I looked at the thermal gloves with the rubber grips and the silver space blankets. "Perhaps it would be worth splashing out on a decent water-proof jacket because it could be snowing. Ooh and I will need some of these expensive breathable socks for women. Grey or black? Are Japanese sizes the same I wonder? How about a first aid kit? Oh and I definitely needed one of these flashlights. We are climbing at night, after all. A whistle for emergencies? Crampons? A fiber-glass walking stick?" I ended up calculating the potential cost of all this stuff and figured that a weeks wages might be a little excessive for equipment I was probably only going to use once - if that. I needed to be realistic. I reminded myself that one can over-prepare for some things and that I was sure I heard that a friend of a friend climbed the mountain in a party dress so that she could get photos of herself on the summit wearing it. In the end I opted for a 900 yen ruck-sack from the cheap store below, some regular socks from Uni-Glo and a pair of Nike trainers in the sale. I borrowed a small torch from a friend to save forking out more money and bought a half sized bottle of Moet and Chandon champagne. "For when I get to the top", I thought optimistically. I rather savoured the prospect of announcing to my friends at the summit as the sun was rising "that now we would enjoy a champagne breakfast!" There would be much celebrating.

The week at work flashed by way too quickly for my liking. That is the problem with routine. I have quite a disliking for it. Living for weekends as good as they are right now is ok for a while, but I don't want my life to slip by and for me only to have two out of seven days to remember fondly. The weeks aren't bad, it is just that they are the same. Planning, teaching, small talk, Thursdays nights at an izakaya, working nights in the internet cafe or watching bad movies in a dingy apartment by the train tracks. The same. I don't have much energy for anything else - I mean finishing work by ten or eleven at night doesn't leave one with much of an evening. Anyway, the weekend of the 13th arrived and I had been looking forward to it.

I met my manager, Erika and Jason my co-worker at Tachikawa station at 2 and we went for a light lunch together in 'Subway'. (MacDonalds style fast-food chain sandwich bar with lime green walls and an over-effective air conditioning unit that brought you out in goosebumps.) Jason wasn't joining us for the hike because he had done it before and was living up to the philosophy mentioned above. However, lucky for us he made sure we had all the necessary items we would need for the climb. We stocked upon energy snacks and drinks at the supermarket and I bought some gloves at the last minute. Then we went back to the station to meet the rest of the party. There were five of us in all - me, Erika from Japan, Gareth an amiable guy from the north of England, Trish from New Zealand and her boyfriend Jarret from the US. It was going to be an international hike representing four continents.

It was a beautiful hot day when we boarded the train at 4pm and a smell of rotten fish hung in the artificially cooled air of the train carriage: a family were tucking into a packet of dried squid in the seat behind. By five we had left the city and were clattering through small towns, beneath lush green mountain sides. Unfortunately, Japan being what it is meant that there were various ugly signs of human endeavour to spoil the view. On one green slope and area of trees had been cleared to create a picture of an envelope with a heart in the centre and two hands clutching it. (Someone surmised that it was advertising for a love hotel.) The sun had gone down and a fine grey drizzle was falling. Between quiet stations slipped paddy fields and low shacks. The conversation had dried up along with all traces of urbanisation. The prospect of a cold and muggy night on a mountain side had quelled our spirits and soon we were the only people in the compartment. I stared out of the window at the unfamiliar landscape as my companions snoozed next to their back-packs. Although the trickling rain and the muted colours of rural Japan were having a soporific effect on me too, I didn't want to miss a thing and forced myself to stay awake. It was then I realised I was not actually going to see the mountain. It would be nightfall when we arrived at Kawaguchi-ko. I wondered how would we know for sure that we were actually going to climb Fuji? What if we accidentally climbed the wrong mountain instead?!

At about six we changed trains at a peaceful little station whose name now escapes me. The rest of the journey was made on a 'Thomas the tank engine' train. (Not an old fashioned locomotive but a train covered in pictures of the children's favourite smiling steam train.) It was quite surreal. We were embarking on what for many people is a spiritual mission - on a 'Thomas train' with a beer car. We arrived at the quiet station at about 7:00 pm. It was almost dark. The air was damp and humid and you could smell wood smoke. A bus was just pulling out of the car park which was filled with climbers; back-packs wedged onto laps. We decided to go to the 'seven-eleven' to stock up on water because we were warned that although you can buy it on the mountain it is expensive. We ended up buying wooden walking sticks and I purchased a can of oxygen too. I think the others thought I was being a bit over-cautious but I figured it was worth having. It was amazing to see how well stocked the shop was - they were obviously well aware of how many people would be attempting the climb that night. The chill cabinets were packed with sandwiches (made with white, crustless, processed stuff that posed as bread) rice balls, salads and silver packets of energy-fuel (made with seaweed jelly.) We ate another snack on the pavement outside in the drizzle. I had bought a rice ball but decided I didn't like the slimy salmon inside so binned it. Gareth ate a microwaved 'burrito'. He confessed his weakness for them informing us that he averaged fifteen of them a week. "That would explain his rather portly build" I thought, "I hope he makes it up the mountain."

At 7:47 we piled onto the bus and started our ascent up Mt. Fuji. It took about an hour to get to the half way point at fifth station. (2305 meters.) The area was swarming with excited mountaineers, all making last minute preparations before tackling a night hike up the sacred volcano. There were a few shops selling souvenirs and walking sticks with flags on, gloves, flash-lights and postcards. The rain had stopped but it was certainly cooler up there. Extra layers were added, photos taken and soon we were off. The night was clear and starry. The initial walk to the 6th station was not an arduous one. It took us through woodland and then a gentle climb up a broad, crumbly path from which to our left we could see a dark and misty valley stretched out below. By the time we got to the 6th station (2390 meters) the layers were stripped off and I continued in just a t-shirt. However I knew that what lay ahead was not going to be easy. The loudspeakers at the checkpoint warned off freezing temperatures, and a difficult terrain. "Torches and warm clothes are a must if Fuji is to remain a happy and enjoyable memory," the woman advised. At the station (a small hut with floodlights and a post reading how high we were) we were given a map of the route up. Just looking at all those zig-zags between here and next four stations to the top was enough to make you turn and walk back down! But a few swigs of water and we were off again.

The climb to the seventh station was tough. The paths were wide and were composed of gritty, volcanic debris. The worst thing was that they just went on and on, and up and up at a 45 degree angle for a good hour or so. At every bend we took a short break to wait for Gareth and admire, with some apprehension, the beautiful snake of torch-light leading up into to blackness above us. It was like a trail of glittering diamonds luring us up to the inky heavens. We could barely make out where the trail ended because the higher we climbed the more lights we could see. The summit felt impossibly far away. It took about an hour to get to the seventh check-point. The climb had been monotonous and tiring and I was beginning to feel concerned about Gareth. Not because I was particularly worried about his health, but because I selfishly wanted to be at the top for sunrise. I had to be. There was no question. I wondered whether it would be wrong of me to forge ahead and leave the others to do it in their own time. They might think this very mean of me - we were supposed to be climbing together. Anyway I didn't say anything. We had at least five hours til goraiko. We rested awhile outside a cozy looking hut in the cooling air and shared some chocolate. Although there were a lot of other climbers the mood was not exactly one of buzzing enthusiasm. People were strangely quiet, focused inwardly, thinking about thirst or niggling aches that were starting to set in. We all cheered up though when we noticed that for 200 yen we could get our sticks branded with a symbol and the height we had now arrived at. (2700 meters). This simple physical proof of our journey so far spurred us on towards the next stage of the climb.

From the 7th level the path disappeared and the climb was made in about an hour and a half in short, sharp bursts up very steep and jumbled rocks. I preferred it to the rather boring trek up long stretches of thigh straining zig-zigs. It was more interesting to navigate your path by the orange light of a hand held torch - to think about where place your foot, to look upwards at the dark mass of the rising conical of rock and then stare down behind you at the landscape stretched below. The moon was almost full and I saw shooting stars glance the atmosphere. We were so lucky with the weather. It would have been a misery if it had been raining. It started to get very cold when we next stopped. I was still in just a t-shirt and because the climb was done in quick bursts, from narrow, horizontal levels with the odd hut, then up again over steep rock face, I felt warm enough. However, by the time we got to the 8th station Gareth was way behind so we had to wait for quite some time. I began to feel really cold, so I put my thin acrylic sweater on and my body warmer. We snacked on some dried banana chips and got our third brand. (3020 meters.) We actually managed to warm up inside the hut where two old Japanese guys sat around a little fire - the branding irons glowing orange in the embers. There were lots of people gathered outside. Some were eating steaming cup noodles or clutching cups of coffee. I was surprised to see so many families were attempting the climb with children. There were quite a lot of old people too and organised tour groups dressed in matching anoraks - the leaders of which carried out headcounts and clutched at clip-boards. (A perfect example of Japanese organisation.) The stations were a comforting cluster of light, warmth and communion for fellow hikers. Although little was said except for a comment on the temperature or how the climb had been so far, it was nice to be face to face with those you were sharing the experience with. Between checkpoints, all you really see is the backs of figures in the darkness in front of you, and then way above you the tantalizing stream of glittering torches to the summit.

It was now about 1am and all that was really going through my mind was breathing deeply to get enough oxygen and getting to the summit. I simply had to get there before sunrise. This was probably going to be a once in a lifetime experience and the goal was all I thought about. I was beginning to feel tired. The air was thinner as we clambered over more boulders and shale. By now we were passing people who had collapsed at the sides of paths. Some were huddled together trying to keep warm. Others were sucking on oxygen. At this point I too thought it wise to boost my O2 levels - I was feeling pretty light headed. I stopped at the Hakuunso hut rest stop and shared a some oxygen with Erika and we shivered in the bright flood lights on the narrow path. Only a fine wire fence separated us from a growling mountain side. Nothing grew up here. It was all just inhospitable dust and pumice that one could barely discriminate against the night sky. In the far, far distance I could see the lights of Tokyo, thinly veiled beneath ghostly cloud. We agreed to go ahead and meet Gareth and the others at the top. It was too cold to stop and wait and we had a sun to race. After another sugar hit we continued our ascent. For most of the way we walked alone. We did not have the breath to talk and in the blackness had to concentrate on where to step. I did not have energy to think interesting thoughts. "The top, the top was all I could think." Every now and then I would look around me and say to myself "Wow. This is amazing. It is so beautiful. I am climbing Mt. Fuji. I can't believe it." Eventually we made it to the 9th station. That felt like an achievement. Our destination seemed so close. On the map we had arrived at the 3360 meter mark, and were thus rewarded with another brand on our sticks. It was a mere 416 meters to the top - according to the map. Of course in reality the climb was probably another 2km because of the indirect nature of the snaking pathways. All I remember of the 9th station was the 'Fujisan hotel'. For those too tired or cold or ill from altitude sickness, the 'hotel' was somewhere to crash for a while. It was basically a hut with futons spread across the floor and several hundred weary climbers spread out upon them. It looked cozy. A room next door served hot bowls of noodle soup to people sat at wooden benches. Outside, people were lying against the side of the hut or on stone seats, sleeping. The trek was proving too much for many. "We are nearly at the top" I said to Erika as we breathed some more oxygen and stared in at the warmth of the Fujisan hotel. There was even a humble gift shop selling Japanese flags and cold beer.

I looked up at the sky. It was still reassuringly dark blue but I knew day break was only a couple of hours away. We set off once more. This time it was the light from our torches that lit the way to the highest point in Japan. The ganglion of gold leading to the summit seemed to drift upwards for an exhaustingly long time. This time there were no rest stops, not huts or horizontal ledges at which to rest. What made it worse was that now the hikers had slowed down due to having to climb with hands too and in fading torch-light. The numbers condensed and soon we had joined a queue, five people wide to the top. The temperature was barely above zero and I was wishing I had bought a thicker pair of gloves. The cold was really starting to get to me. Step by step we went. Ever so slowly. One step forward - a food on a boulder, a stick thrust forward in preparation for the next push up. Yet people were moving at a snails pace. It was excruciating. I had to get to the top before sunrise. I was desperate. I felt shattered. I was freezing cold and frustrated. If only I could move, I would warm up and get to the top. I fought for oxygen and concentrated on filling my lungs with the icy air. I had no idea where Erika was, never mind the rest of the group. Were they ahead or behind? I started to feel claustrophobic. I had people's ruck-sacks and boots in my face the whole way and every time I turned to look behind me I felt I might fall backwards and tumble down the mountain, creating a horrific wave of falling bodies and broken limbs. A terrifying, bloody, domino effect all the way back to ninth station. It could easily have happened. People were so densely packed if one person had fallen others would have gone too, unable to maintain their balance.

This was undoubtedly the most painful and torturous part of the ascent. I didn't know how I would ever make it to the top. We continued in this shivering, staccato climb all the way to the summit. It took two and a half hours and by the time I reached the torii gate I was numb with cold and almost delirious with fatigue and awe and oxygen deprivation. As I stopped a few feet in front of the gateway on the grey rock and looked back down at the long vein of people creeping their way up, I felt a wave of exhilaration. The sky had paled into a light blue-grey. Dawn was on its way. I had made it! I had done it. I stood there in a trance trying to take it all in and snapped a few pictures on my camera. All around me were people. Dog tired people. Many were lying prone against rocks, others were staring vacantly at the sky or stubbornly taking those few last steps to the plateau around the crater. After a short while I was joined by a pale Erika. We were the first from our group to get to the top. We exchanged a pathetic congratulatory cheer and forced a smile we barely had energy for. We had made it.