"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...
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...
No comments:
Post a Comment