Having been told to expect a three- to four-hour, traffic-snarled drive, we left home in a rented van at 4 a.m. this morning. Only having had about three hours of sleep, all six of us should have been groggy and grumpy, yet there was lots of joking and excited chatter as we drove through the brightening dawn towards Mt. Fuji. Even with stops to capture photos of our destination looming in the distance, we made the trip in under two hours. The drive from the base of the mountain to the 5
th station, the traditional starting point for climbers, which we were warned would be bumper to bumper, was actually deserted. This meant when we encountered a giant eighth note painted in the middle of the asphalt, we were free to drive the recommended 50 km per hour over the grooved pavement to hear a
lovely tune created by the van’s tires.
At last we were directed to park in a fairly empty lot where everyone piled out of the van, slathered on sunscreen, and slung on backpacks. A 10-minute, slightly uphill walk brought us to the famed 5th station of the Kawaguchiko Route, where we took advantage of the foul-smelling, but possibly only, Western-style toilet on the mountain before heading into the gift shop to purchase the requisite Fuji stick. This stick is an octagonal wooden staff, probably worth about $2, but sold for $15. I chose one capped by a flag printed with a map of the trail we were about to climb, but opted not to grab one with bells attached (said to scare away evil spirits along the trail, but more likely to drive the hiker carrying the stick completely insane). The purpose of this stick is not so much to assist climbers over volcanic rocks as it is to offer proof of the journey. At various huts (rest stops) along the trail, the stick can be marked with a red-hot brand for about $3 a pop, with the goal (or at least my goal) being the coveted sunrise stamp at the summit. I know all this because Jim has a branded stick (with bells!?) from his first ascent of Fuji-san. Since that stick is currently in storage, he decided to purchase a regular aluminum hiking pole from a sporting goods store for this second climb. After safely tucking my Fuji-map flag in my backpack so it wouldn’t be ruined by sweaty hands and blowing volcanic dust, I gathered with the rest of the group for a pre-climb photo taken by an obliging Japanese climber. Looking at the photo in the display window of my camera, we are all smiling, the sky is blue, life couldn’t be better….
As we started out, I was puzzled by the downward slope of the first twenty minutes of hiking. I thought we were climbing up Mt. Fuji? When the path finally became a noticeable, but not unpleasant, incline we passed by some tired but sturdy looking horses and guides offering $120 rides up the trail. I was lulled into thinking if a horse could go up this trail with a rider on its back, then it should be no problem for me. Fast forward about four hours…The moderate incline has become increasingly steep and I have been climbing as fast as my aching legs will carry me, yet strangely I find myself alone. The rest of the group has deserted me. The gazelles, Patrick, Pat, and Angela, left me in the dust within the first hour. Jim stayed by my side for a (little) while longer, then started hiking ahead and waiting for me to catch up at the next hut. Eventually, between the frequent pauses to catch my breath (not really winded from the altitude, just the hard work) and stops to purchase brands for my stick, he gave up and just went on ahead. Aaron was nearby for a longer time, as he was stopping often to take pictures. At some point, I also fell significantly behind him. I was left leap-frogging up the mountain with a Japanese family hiking with their young son, all of us being passed at regular intervals by boisterous twenty-somethings and determined senior citizens.
The Kawaguchiko Route up Mt. Fuji started at an elevation of 2305 m. The path was an interminable series of switchbacks, zigzagging up the mountain. Some sections were wide and covered in soft dust, while other areas were steep, treacherous piles of volcanic boulders that required the help of both hands (notice I did not say Fuji stick) to scale. In some places where the lava from the last eruption cooled too steep and smooth to find a foothold, steps had been carved in the rock. What I didn’t understand was why the rise on each step was between 18 and 24 inches high—that’s a quad-challenging stretch for American-size legs, and must be exceptionally frustrating for the more vertically challenged Japanese. At various points along the trail were randomly spaced “huts” where hikers could rest, purchase drinks and snacks (the price increased with the altitude, but my $2 banana was absolutely delicious), use the toilet for a dollar, and get stamps on their sticks. Our goal for the day was the Fujisan Hotel at the 8th station and 3360 m—and though that was only three stations past our start point, it did not mean my hike was over when I reached the third hut. There were random collections of two to eight huts between each station, and it quickly became depressing trying to figure out how many more huts I needed to pass to reach my goal. No matter how much I climbed, anytime I looked up I only saw more mountain. I finally took some Tylenol to ease the burning in my legs, then just put my head down, put one foot in front of the other, and plodded towards the next hut and its unique stamp—I’m not sure what I would have done without the incentive of filling up my hiking stick with those stamps. I was so determined to have a complete set of stamps (well, minus the one from the unmanned 6th station), in order, that I was outraged when I found out one of the huts around the 7th station was selling the sunrise stamp, and refused to get it because it wouldn’t be authentic unless it was burned into my stick on the summit.
Finally, after about seven and a half hours, I saw a tiny figure waving to me from high above, at what I could only hope was the Fujisan Hotel. It still took another twenty minutes of dragging myself uphill to recognize the figure as Jim. As I stopped once again to catch my breath, he made his way down the path to escort me the last few meters (consisting of about twenty of those monstrous, quad-punishing lava steps). To my bewilderment, I found myself choking back tears, I guess a result of the tremendous physical and emotional relief of knowing I was finally there.
The Fujisan Hotel was actually nothing more than a large uninsulated wooden shed, with a U-shaped two-tiered bunk layout able to accommodate at least two hundred people stacked like cordwood, but it looked like the Ritz to me. I gladly climbed to my assigned sleeping bag on the top tier bunk, stowed my backpack on a hook, swallowed two more tablets of what would become a long, alternating regimen of Advil and Tylenol, and eased back for a well-deserved rest. Soon dinner was served on a low Japanese table, and I climbed down to my cushion on the floor where I attacked the curry, rice, and hamburger patty with abandon. I was ready to plow through the miniature hot dogs as well, but the first fish-flavored bite brought me sputtering to a halt. After enjoying a $4 hot chocolate served in a 4-ounce Dixie cup, we played some Uno and eavesdropped on the tales of the other hikers who had straggled in. When our tired legs couldn’t stand sitting on the hard floor any longer, we climbed back up to the bunk, stowed the bento breakfasts that were included in our lodging fees, and settled in to get some rest. As I struggled to find a comfortable position for my aching body on the hard bunk, I consoled myself with the fact that I had climbed 1471 vertical meters, and only had 416 to go….
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