Visiting the Gray Area

Go to Google Maps and type in "Pyongyang, North Korea." You'll be virtually flown to Pyongyang...but you'll also quickly notice that there is nothing but an eerie gray filling in the land around it. Even the geniuses that brought us Gmail, Gchat, and every other Googly wonder are unable to map out North Korea. It is my hope that this will help answer your first question: Why the hell would Megan go to the DMZ? When it comes to traveling, the more uncharted, the better.

And so it was that I boarded a tour van the morning of July 24 bound for Paju, South Korea, the gateway to the DMZ when coming from the direction of Seoul. I was the last person to be picked up, and so ended up with a front row seat, and therefore panoramic view of whatever it was that would lie ahead of us. The barbed wire fences and camouflaged military watchtowers became commonplace immediately after we passed out of Seoul's city limits. It hit me then, as it would throughout the day, that this was not a tour into the past. As striking and emotional as places like Dachau and Omaha Beach and Nagasaki have been in my travels, the DMZ took on an altogether different character. While it is a part of history, it has not yet been relegated to the books. It is still very much an active piece of world politics - a rumbling volcano, if you will, that could stir at any time given just the wrong mixture of circumstances.

Our guide, a young, friendly, well-spoken South Korean man, provided us with some background on the present state of the Korean conflict on the hour-long bus ride up to Paju. He spoke alternately of re-unification of the two Koreas and a "Second Korean War", and of both possibilities in such a matter-of-fact way that I was startled. It seems that either no one desires to remain in the status quo, or that people are simply resigned to the fact that it cannot and will not remain indefinitely.

Surprisingly, South Korea runs an industrial complex on the North Korean side of the DMZ. After all, North Korean labor comes cheaply. Up until December of 2008, the complex was supplied daily by a train connecting the two Koreas, but service came to a screeching halt when the current, and more conservative, administration came to power in South Korea at the end of last year. South Korean tourists had also been allowed to visit two specific sites in North Korea...until one of them unknowingly wandered past the wrong line and was shot to death by the North Korean army. Now, the only daily interaction between the two countries are the trucks that have taken the industrial train's place, running up Highway 1 to Kaesong and then back across the border. Relations have once again soured.

Our first glimpse of North Korea came sooner than expected, as our guide turned our attention to increased military presence on the left side of the highway. The mountains on the other side of the river belonged to North Korea. There was no DMZ here, on the westernmost side of the 38th parallel. North Korea had refused to include this maritime region in the DMZ with the knowledge that it claimed a navy far inferior to that of South Korea. The result is the only few miles of unbuffered border in the divided nation (the only divided nation remaining on Earth, by the way). The DMZ lies 2 km on either side of the rest of the border. We continued north, slightly perplexed by the number of civilian cars still accompanying us. When asked where all these people were going, our guide responded that we had yet to hit the northernmost city on this highway, the one where LG is headquartered. That's right - your LG phone probably had its origins just a few miles south of the DMZ.

We eventually pulled into a parking lot in Paju and were told we'd be changing into a government bus for our expedition into the DMZ. As it marks the border with the militarized zone (South Korea buffers itself from the DMZ with a heavily militarized strip of land), Paju plays a significant role for many South Koreans. Some 80% of South Koreans have ties to North Korea, relatives who've lived or died there. Paju is as close as they can come to pay respects to the dead and pray for an eventual peace. An enormous peace bell hangs on a hill here, provided for all of those who mourn the families from whom they are estranged. Also in Paju is the Bridge of No Return. At the "end" of the Korean War, South Korean POWs were allowed to choose which direction to walk on the bridge, which Korea to live in. Once decided, they could not turn back. I place "end" of the war in quotes, by the way, because only an armistice was ever signed. Technically, North and South Korea are still at war.

We boarded the government bus, passed over the hopefully named "Unification Bridge", had our passports checked by South Korean military, and rolled into the DMZ. As it is, by its nature, a relatively undeveloped place, the DMZ has become one of the more unlikely natural havens in the world. Several species thrive there that can live nowhere else. Mother Nature is beautifully oblivious, or perhaps even defiant, in the face of man's squabbles. In any case, heavily forested hills are still pockmarked with a million land mines, dropped by the North Koreans at the DMZ's inception. "You don't want to get out of the bus and wander off the side of the road," we're told. No problem.

Our first stop found us at the Third Tunnel, one of the four attempts by North Korea to (literally) undermine the DMZ that the South Koreans have discovered. Chillingly, predictions estimate that at least 20 of these tunnels exist. The parking lot, full of tour buses, also boasted a large, bright, multicolored "DMZ" sign sporting a cheerful flower, in front of which people were posing for pictures - one of the more incongruent scenes I've ever witnessed. In any case, we were instructed to wear hard hats and led down a 350-meter long access tunnel to a depth of 73 meters, then allowed to walk the length of the North Korean tunnel to within 170 meters of the North Korean border. The "roof" was barely 4.5 feet in places, water dripped from the subterranean rock surrounding us, and the walk was hell on one's back - but just this once, it had to be done. I kept imagining an army of North Koreans slamming their heads on the ceiling as they attempted to invade Seoul. In any case, the tunnel was all out creepy, ending at the first of three reinforced walls installed by the South Korean military after the tunnel's discovery. It was creepier for the fact that several more of these things likely lay undiscovered, their exits in proximity to Seoul.

Our second stop brought us to Dora Observatory, an outpost set up for tourists' viewing pleasure. Out across the grasslands lay North Korea. People scrambled to the binoculars set up to catch a glimpse of the land too mysterious for Google Maps. A yellow line several feet behind the retaining wall marked the last allowable inch for photographers. The mountains on the other side of the border were nearly stripped clean - a consequence, we were told, of North Korea's financial inability to purchase oil. Apparently, they strip and burn trees for fuel instead. The South Korean industrial complex was also visible in the distance, a black, shiny behemoth in the middle of, well, nothing. Most striking, though, were the propaganda villages built on either side of the demarcation line. North and South Korea began a "friendly" battle years ago to see who could fly the highest flag in their respective propaganda village. North Korea's flag wins today by a long shot, some 150 meters in the air to South Korea's 95 - but only because South Korea finally decided the competition was too juvenile to care about. Evidently, this is what Kim Jong-Il spends his time worrying about. Team America: World Police isn't so far off after all. I was, of course, fascinated to be staring out over a slice of North Korea, even if it was a tiny slice, and even if it was specifically engineered for my eyes. Regardless, it's a place that may remain shrouded in mystery for the duration of my lifetime, and I simply had a childlike curiosity in catching even the briefest glimpse of it.

Our final stop has ended up enduring the most in my memory. We visited Doraville Station, the super-modern, multi-million dollar station built in 2002 to connect the two Koreas by rail. It served its purpose to some extent up through last December, when the industrial trai

ns were still rumbling through. Today, however, it sits shiny and silent, a very expensive symbolic hope and prayer. A map outside details the railway line running across the border, into Kaesong, up to Pyongyang, and then eventually connecting with the Trans siberian Railroad. A marble wall is packed with the names of Koreans who donated their hard-earned money for the station's construction. Inside, a desk labeled "Inter-Korean Transit Agency" sits empty in a corner. A display commemorates George W. Bush's peace address, made here in February of 2002. A soldier guards the entrance to a waiting room labeled "To Pyeongyang." But the schedule board is conspicuously blank. No trains will be running to the North Korean capital today...or tomorrow...or probably for a very long while. The soldier's job, in actuality, is to pose for photographs with tourists.

We exit the DMZ via a farming village - a quiet, peaceful town, once again incongruent with the reality of its location. Those who live in the DMZ are exempt from taxes and the mandatory 2-year military conscription for South Korean males (10 years for North Koreans). The DMZ is UN territory, after all. If North Korea launches an attack, it will probably be for Seoul, and not one of the inconspicuous DMZ villages. So I suppose life is fairly safe, if not particularly exciting, for DMZ dwellers. On the other hand, they're probably very careful about watching their step.

We return to the Paju parking lot to switch back into the van that will carry us back to Seoul. I notice a little amusement park that I had not seen on the way in. What an odd place for such a thing! How out of place it seems! Yet again, out of place. Incongruity is a theme here. In reality, the nature, the silly primary-colored DMZ sign, the sign to Pyongyang, the quiet little village, the amusement park - are all just part of an entire strip of land that is, quite literally, out of place. When you're in the DMZ, you're everywhere and nowhere at the same time, caught in the still-bleeding wound of the only divided nation on Earth.

Body and Seoul

Following our misadventures in Busan, we were excited to return to the relative normalcy we thought Seoul would provide. The 3 hour Korail train ride provided an opportunity to check out some of the gorgeous Korean countryside. Admittedly ignorant about Korea, I was surprised by how mountainous the country is. The landscape reminded me a lot of the scenes out train windows in South India, as one threads the needle between the Eastern and Western Ghats. Mountains, small villages, rice paddies. The mysterious white ferro-concrete apartment blocks were even more ubiquitous than they'd been in Busan. We also used our 3 hours to ponder over several of Jose's puzzle book logic problems...

While not quite to the scale of Tokyo Station, Seoul Station very quickly reminded us that we were back in one of the biggest cities in the world. We navigated our way to the Seoul Metro and pretty easily found our hostel's building, thanks to the Dunkin' Donuts marking the entrance. That's right. Rampant American commercialization seems to have been a significant side effect of the Korean War. The typical international chains (McDonald's, KFC, Starbucks) are joined in Korea by the likes of Quizno's, Dunkin', Auntie Anne's pretzels, and of course, Outback. This visual Westernization bore a striking contrast to the lack of English spoken (or admittedly spoken) in the country.

Our hostel, the Hongdae Guesthouse, was located in the area of the city surrounding Hongik University. As a result, the hostel lay at one of Seoul's ground zeros for bars, clubs, and restaurants. We were located on the 3rd floor of a building that seemed like it should have been housing offices instead of hostels. We knew we were in for an interesting experience upon entering the hostel's office and being greeted by its proprietor, Mary.

Mary's office could be kindly described as cluttered. A more accurate visualization can be obtained by imagining the result of an indoor tornado. Mary herself was a short Korean firecracker, probably in her late 50s or early 60s. She immediately requested we sit down and assured us not to worry about the roof. We were slightly puzzled as to 1) where to sit down, as the clutter enveloped all potential seating apparati and 2) why, exactly, we needed to be reassured about the roof. We gingerly scooped some of the clutter out of the way and were relieved to hear that the roof assurance was part of some idiomatic Korean. Mary then proceeded to engage Jose in all matter of conversation, flailing about the room and leaving us all with puzzled, slightly amused, wide-eyed expressions. Once she found out about Jose's love of music, she determined we all needed to create a street band to earn some money for our travels. She made plans to head out to the music store so Jose could obtain a guitar and insisted our band be called "Jose and Girls." By this point, we were all wondering what, exactly, she was on. Eventually and with no particular concern for order, rents were paid and we were led to our rooms. The rooms were pretty unique for a hostel and included ensuite bathrooms, water coolers, stovetops, and a sleeping loft. The loft would have been especially cool had it not been designed for oompa loompas. The ceiling might have reached 5 feet at its zenith, less on its soffited edges. We thus dubbed it "The Bat Cave."

We ate dinner, ironically enough, at a Japanese restaurant and spent the evening wandering between the multitude of bars at our disposal. We eventually ended up at a place called Zen, which we liked enough to return to a few nights later. Aside from the infinite number of drinking establishments, Seoul proved dangerous for its outrageously cheap alcohol. We may have been shelling out several thousand Won, but in reality that meant that full glasses of Johnny Walker ran a couple of bucks. Unfortunately, South Korean brewers could stand to take a few suggestions. The three primary beers - Hite, Max, and the interestingly named "Cass Fresh"- left something to be desired. At least they were cheap. Anyway, combine infinite bars and clubs with dirt cheap alcohol and seemingly nonexistent closing times, and you have a recipe for some sorts of disaster, at least of the cirrhosal variety. We ended the night at a club called Cocoon advertising no cover for foreigners. Cocoon provided several levels of pounding music, gesticulating 20-somethings, and green lasers. The end of the night found Marina, Katherine and yes, me, on the front stage.

I woke up in pain the next afternoon, not only from a less than friendly hangover, but also from a pulsating left foot. I'd managed to do something to it while partying in front of all of Cocoon, and it was none too happy to be of any ambulatory assistance. I limped to afternoon breakfast with everyone and then decided to self-prescribe bed rest in the Bat Cave for the rest of the day. By evening, I was feeling a little better and ventured out to dinner with Jose, Marina, and Marlayna. We ate at a modified Korean barbecue that everyone seemed to enjoy a lot. We then began an expedition in search of a famous Beatles-themed bar we'd been told to visit. Once again, we found ourselves searching for a needle in haystack, the job all the more difficult for all of the Koreans who would giggle and run away when asked if they could help us out. After probably half an hour of searching, we finally found the basement bar.

Beginning to feel sick again and pathetically ordering waters from the bar, I knew I would have to call it an early night. However, I did not do so before we had one of the more entertaining encounters of the trip. A very very very (very) drunk middle-aged Korean man was swaying rather radically and precariously on his bar stool across the room from us. We were soon enrapt in watching the man's friend and the bartender attempt to dress the man in his sportcoat and lead him out of the bar. The gentleman, however, had absolutely no intention of leaving the bar on anything other than his own terms, and no one else was very much inclined to force him. There ensued a delicate ballet (almost literally) that soon swept us up with it when we became locked in the gaze of the drunkard. The man took a particular liking to Jose and babbled to him in drunken Korean while attempting to dance with him. We were all hysterically laughing, slightly nervous, annoyed, sad, and absolutely bewildered at once. Laughing because the sight of this drunkard's affection for Jose was absurdly ridiculous. Nervous because we weren't sure what the guy would do next. Annoyed because what began as funny became slightly irritating after half an hour's time. Sad because we wondered what must have happened in this man's life to bring him to such a state. And bewildered because none of us had ever seen drunkenness quite to this level before. Finally, Jose and the bartender were able to persuade the man to leave, peace returned to the bar, the Korean kids sitting beside us fled, and the embarrassed bartender bought several rounds of shots for our table. My next day would prove to be just as absurd, but under completely different circumstances. I'll chronicle my solo adventure out to the DMZ all by itself in the next post.

In any case, Seoul involved some more drinking, more dancing at Cocoon, more eating, a casino night (in which I barely took part thanks to my horrendous lack of luck and poker skills...and oh, funds) and a particularly entertaining trip to the enormous Coex mall complex. The Coex mall comes close to rivalling the megamalls of Dubai, if it lacks that city's penchant for theming. In any case, the mall boasts, among other things, possibly the largest book store I've ever seen, an enormous movie theater, and an aquarium. We took turns at all three. Aquariums can, admittedly, be dull. Once you've seen a few, you've seen them all. Except this one. The Coex aquarium was, to put it lightly, weird. One room was dedicated to displaying fish in various household appliances and fixtures - toilets, refrigerators, microwaves, even water beds. We hit the shark tank just in time to catch the tail end of a shark feeding...being carried out by Peter Pan and Captain Hook. Among the aquarium's inhabitants were bats, bunnies, and monkeys (thereby forcing us all to redefine our notion of "aquarium") and a two-headed turtle who, as the description below him read "had a tough childhood"...clearly, all of the other turtles made fun of him and left him out of their turtle games. To top things off, the snack bar offered up peanut butter roasted squid legs, or something along those lines.

Confident that someone had drugged our soft drinks after the aquarium experience, we decided to catch a movie. The only one playing at a reasonable time for us and offering enough seats was...drumroll...My Bloody Valentine. I would not dare ruin the plot for those of you who have not seen this cinematic masterpiece. Those of you who have seen it will understand why I am positive that it will win Best Picture in 2010. My Bloody Valentine, in a room full of Koreans judging American cinema...we ate dinner at the mall's TGI Fridays, gulping down two barrels (literally, barrel-shaped giganto-pitchers) of beer to soften the blow.

We left Seoul on the 27th to return to Busan by train, catch the Beetle jetfoil back to Fukuoka, Japan, and then catch a train to our next destination, Hiroshima. It was just in the nick of time for the sake of everyone's livers.

3776 and the Land of the Rising Sun

"He who climbs Mt. Fuji once is a wise man. He who climbs it twice is a fool." Unequivocally, the truest words ever spoken.

So this post is going to jump ahead, skipping over Seoul, Hiroshima, and Osaka, whose tales will come later, for the sake of describing our ascent up Mt. Fuji as close to the moment as possible (aka...post post-Fuji shower, nap, full-body massage, CAT scan, and MRI).

Arriving to Fuji 5th station (from which all reasonably sane people begin their hike up the beast) was our first challenge. The transit route from Osaka to the town of Kawaguchiko, our Fuji "base camp" if you will, is slightly convoluted to begin with. There is just really no good way to get here from there. We took a 3 hour train from Osaka to Mishima station before transferring to what was billed as a 2 hour bus ride to Kawaguchiko. Once in Kawaguchiko, we knew we had another 50 minute ride to the 5th station ahead of us after checking into our hostel and dumping our luggage. Things began to get interesting when it began pouring rain at Mishima station. It appeared that we were not only going to climb a 12,000 foot mountain at night, but that we were going to do so in the rain. We attempted to make the best of the situation in our minds: climbing Fuji in the rain WOULD make us even more badass, and it was likely that fewer people would be in our way up the mountain. In addition, well...um...so much for that...

In any case, we boarded our bus, expecting to arrive in Kawaguchiko around 6:50 in the evening, transfer to our hostel, and catch the 8:00 bus to Fuji for a 9:00 ascent. As transportation in Japan tends to be as reliable as death and taxes, the thought of a delay did not even cross our minds. This is Reason No. 762 why I'll take a train over a bus any day - buses are subject to the wiles of traffic, accidents, and general road annoyances. Trains live in a special indestructible world called the track, and they are perfect in every way. ANYWAY, the 2 hour ride time quoted us apparently did not take bumper-to-bumper, one-lane-twisty-mountain-road traffic into consideration. We crawled along for about an hour in the rain, taillights ahead of us as far as the eye could see. Our Fuji plans were in severe danger of being foiled, as we had to begin our ascent early enough to reach the summit by the 4:55 am sunrise. Nervously and impatiently waiting for the digital fare calculator at the front of the bus to reach the amount we'd paid, we finally pulled into Kawaguchiko Station at 7:30, booked it to a cab, threw our credit cards at the people mannning our hostel's front desk, transformed ourselves into spelunkers, and were out the door by 8:30 to catch the final bus to Fuji for the night at 9:15. Phew. Hard part over. Now we just had to get up the mountain.

We were giddy as we boarded the bus to the 5th station. Fuji-san has lingered ahead of us for the past month and longer. I became obsessed with the mountain back in January when I signed on for this trip and drew up the cockamamy scheme for us to climb the thing. 12,000 feet? That sounded cool. 200,000 people tackle the mountain in the climbing months of July and August every year. Some also tackle it in the off-season...of those who do, some die. So it sounded like a plausible scheme with enough danger and uncertainty involved to make it interesting.

We happily trekked down the trail from the 5th station to the 6th station, almost skipping along the downhill path. Wait. DOWNHILL? We'd blindly followed some other people in the dark...were we stupid enough to have started off in the wrong direction? I suggested we ask someone, as embarrassing as it would be. Finding ourselves at the bottom of the mountain hours later would have proven much worse. So, adults that we are, someone instantly shouted, "NOSE GAME!" to determine who the unlucky fool would be to ask the question. Of course, I was slow to the trigger and left to ask a passerby if we were going in the right direction. Indeed we were, we just had not hit the upward trail yet. Regardless, we began our hike up Mt. Fuji unsure whether we were actually headed up or down the mountain. Clearly, we knew what we were doing. In any case, we finally did find the trail and were at the 6th station in half an hour, admiring the breathtaking view below and playing 20 Questions all the way. Piece of cake. Only 4 stations to go until the top. What was the big deal, after all?

And then we left the 6th station for the approximated 60 minute hike to the 7th station. 20 Questions trailed off, as we were too busy gasping for air to waste it on guessing what animal, vegetable, or mineral someone had in mind. Oh. The climb from the 6th to 7th stations allayed our fear of heading down the mountain. I will certainly give it that. We trudged up sharp switchbacks, the air lighter at every turn, providing less oxygen to our taxed muscles and minds. It was at this point that I realized I was hiking with people-cum-mountain goats. Jose nearly ran up the trail, the other 3 girls hot on his heels. I brought up the rear...in order to...um...make sure everyone else got up safely in front of me... I was quite the happy camper when we hit the 7th station, 3100 meters up. 3 stations and 676 meters to go.

That's when we hit the second traffic jam of the day. Mt. Fuji welcomes (I use the term quite loosely) thousands of hikers a night. I'd read about her trails being packed, somewhat akin to a line at the greatest roller coaster in a theme park, but you can't really envision the situation until you're in it. I, for one, was relieved to have no choice but to slow down. By this point, the atmospheric oxygen was lessened enough that my leg muscles were screaming. Other than the traffic jam, this leg was marked by rock scrambling...that is, finding a foothold and a handhold and scrambling up sometimes narrow passages of volcanic rock. Oddly enough, it was one of the easiest phases of the climb and I had a blast. We soon hit the 8th station, confident we'd be to the summit by 1 or 2 in the morning. Such was the calm before the storm.

This is when Fuji likes to remind you that she really doesn't want to be climbed after all. The ascent from the 8th stage is nearly all switchbacks. The lack of oxygen at this elevation makes every step feel like a victory and begins to make people act as if intoxicated. Slightly lightheaded and goofy, I trudged on ahead, still bringing up the rear, but bound and determined not to quit. This is when I began to have a personal battle with Fuji, Megan Versus The Volcano, if you will. Then we hit the second 8th station. That's right. The Fuj is a real comedian, tricking you into thinking you're further up than you are, and then socking you with a second 8th station. By this point, everyone was drunk off of exhaustion and lack of oxygen. We all would have failed sobriety tests. Our zigzagging paths were especially of concern thanks to the deadly falls that would welcome us if we took an especially wrong step. People here and there along the path were dropping like flies, probably due to altitude sickness. However, after hitting the second 8th station, our little Fuji maps promised us only 80 minutes to go. At this point, I was no longer able to think straight and so am not able to report an accurate time, but it was probably around 2:00, so we still had 2 hours and 55 minutes till sunrise. Piece of cake.

A sign a little while after the second 8th station and countless more switchbacks pointed us toward the 8.5th station.

Me to Jose: WHAT THE F*** IS THE 8.5TH STATION?!
Jose: I have no idea, but that's not encouraging...
Once again, Fuji sucker punches us. 5, 6, 7, 8, 8, 8.5? Were we so oxygen-deprived that we were imagining this? Was there actually a top to this mountain or did it go on forever? We kept moving, barely stopping to rest. Long about 3 in the morning, we reached the Torii gate marking the 9th station. The top was supposedly ours in half an hour, according to a sign.

That's when we hit Major Traffic Jam No. 28 of the day. It appeared that the secret had somehow gotten out, and we weren't the only people who wanted to summit Fuji before sunrise. Tour group after tour group lined the rocky path to the top. We could see it, we could smell it. There was no way we would make it in half an hour. All we could do was drunkenly wait our turn and take one step at a time. The tour guides shouted instructions to their minions through bullhorns, as if this were some sort of military exercise. (We contemplated the misery one's life must entail if one resorts to being a Fuji tour guide, thereby scaling the beastly thing on a regular basis while babysitting a group of slightly lunatical folks like ourselves...) The horizon began to redden. It was around 4 am. 55 minutes to go.

The adrenaline rush from the last stretch gave me a second wind, and I soon found a path past the tour groups and hopped up through the rocks in a slightly crazed fashion. Passing through the Torii gate at the summit around 4:30, I felt absolutely elated, chills running down my spine. I'd acclimated to the oxygen levels and could breathe normally. It was freezing at the top, quite a contrast to the scorching, humid days we've endured throughout the trip, but I had no concept of temperature at the time. I turned around to see that everyone else had hit the summit as well. Wandering around in a zombie-like state, we soon all fell into a huge group bear hug. This was something no one could ever take away from us.

Jose, Marina and I headed for the caldera and then for a good spot to watch the sunrise. Poor Jose was an icicle by this point (Did I mention he scaled Fuji wearing shorts? We mused whether he might be the only person to have done that at night. Judging by his clothing, a fellow climber along the way had asked us if we'd all gotten drunk at a bar that night and just decided to climb Fuji. No, no...we'd actually been planning this for months...) In any case, we cuddled up on some volcanic rock with the throngs and watched as the sky brightened and the sun eventually burst from the horizon, eliciting oohs and aaahs from the crowd. The clouds below stretched across the sky like cotton, lesser mountain ranges poking their heads through the mist. It was a nearly out of body experience that I will keep close as long as I live. We couldn't help but giggle and grin from ear to ear, faces red from the cold, hair tangled in the winds of the volcano.
Following the sunrise, we all gulped down some miso and ramen at the mountaintop noodle hut. Then, as quickly as we'd passed through the ultimate Torii gate, we were headed back down again, the cold and our exhaustion too much for us to extend our stay. I had been told that the way down was easy, that one could essentially ski down the switchbacks. Hahahahahaha. Yet another of Fuji's jokes. Although shorter (2.5 hours down as opposed to 6 up), the descending route is arguably more painful than the ascending one. We must have slid down 50 or more dirt and rock switchbacks, terrified of wiping out on each one. This is not an exercise for the weak-kneed, literally. I'm currently contemplating double knee surgery myself. In any case, it was assuredly an exercise of mind over matter. No matter how much it hurts, you HAVE to get down. No matter how much is left below, you MUST look up to see how far you've come. You hit some pathetic vegetation and are relieved to finally see some green. You hit the emergency shelter, then the 7th station, then finally, mercifully the 6th. The endless switchbacks end, the trail levels out, you even climb UP every now and then (strangely, a relief at this point). You catch a second wind near the end and triumphantly cross the finish line, collapse, look up to the top of the mountain, and shake your fist. I beat you, you nasty beast. God bless you.

We'd climbed 1471 vertical meters up and an equal number down, 10 miles in all, over 8.5 hours. We slept on the bus ride home, showered off the Fuji dust, napped, and then spent the rest of the day licking our wounds and watching movies. Still in enormous amounts of pain today, I think we'd all say we're glad we did it. Once. Never again. The views at night are something out of a fairy tale - brighter stars in this environment free of light pollution, ephemeral clouds lazily drifting over tiny cities (e.g. Tokyo) below. The views from the top must be seen for themselves. The trip down is like a hike across the surface of Mars. The elation upon hitting the top, the experience of sharing this struggle with thousands of other pilgrims - those are feelings that cannot be manufactured, memories I'd never trade. You've never lived until you've hiked Fuji once. Do it again and, well, natural selection may take its course...