As the ultimate highlight of my Japan experience turned out to be climbing Fuji-san. First I didn't even consider it, but for my friend Dozi, who came over on a short visit for two weeks, it was on the essential Japan list. Other things included watching Sumo, getting a hanko (name stamp) and going to Karaoke, among other things, but Fuji was undoubtedly the most serious challenge.
For sure, it is a touristy peak. People in their nineties are known to climb it on a regular basis. On the other hand, with nearly 3376 m above sea level it is the highest peak in Japan, so certainly not to be treated without respect. They say a wise man climbs Fuji once in his life. A fool will do it twice. Thus, we had to be well prepared. A few days before we took a little practice hike up Takabochi, the pretty hill of only about 1600 m, just behind my town. As chance had it, it was a lovely late sumer day, the air filled with swarms of red dragonflies dancing in the warm sunlight. We were treated to a magnificent view over lake Suwa, the Northern and the Southern Alps, and in the clear air we could even see Fuji-san in the distance. After enjoying a typical French lunch of baguette, Camembert, tomato, avocado, grapes, and good red wine, we descended again planing our Fuji-trip.
As always, I had to work on Saturday, but had Monday off. We thought we'd take a train down to the foot of Fuji Saturday evening, so we could start ascending on Sunday morning. As it turned out, however, there were no more trains. This saved us on accommodation, but we had to get up early to take the first train to Kawaguchi-ko, from where we would get on the shuttle bus to 5th Station, where traditionally the ascend would start. This also gave us a chance to catch up on some last sleep, down a hot canned coffee from the vending machine, and gather strength that we would surely be needing. It was 10:30 when we reached 5th Station.
Although we kinda knew what to expect of 5th Station (lots of tourists, souvenirs, etc) the impression it gave us was almost too much to bear. Bus after bus spewing out multitudes of tourists, and a souvenir shop of Tokyo dimensions. Inside we filled up our water bottles, made use of the lavatories (which by the way were the worst I'd encountered in Japan) and headed up on the trail, constantly trying to pass clusters of Fuji-climbers without paying much heed to them. Instead we were trying to take in the scenery.
The weather was not the very best. Down in Kawaguchi-ko there was even a slight sprinkle of rain, but since this was our only chance to visit Fuji, we ignored it as best as we could. Eventually the weather itself must have admitted that it couldn't deter us, so it stopped raining. The thick clouds, however, that formed a dense cover over the sky, remained with us throughout the weekend, so there was not much to look at. But should this keep us from taking pictures? No way. Dozi even pointed out an exhibition of some Japanese photographer he'd seen. The topic of the show was snow. Consequently all of his pictures were white, with a piece of a leaf on one, or a stick on the other. People around us, all equipped with fancy cameras they were not using due to the lack of a view, must have thought we were crazy.
Looking at the crowds, however, we could observe a weird trend as well. These folks must have come out here from Tokyo on a weekend, that is THE weekend they actually got off from work. Most of them had huge bulging backpacks, so new that the price-tag must have been just removed. Inside they must have had every single item they could get their hands on at their local mountaineering store, probably brand new as well, in matching colors to their windbreakers. Interestingly, these types became less frequent the higher we climbed, and past 6th Station we hardly saw any of them. Instead, we would come across more serious hikers and less serious shoppers, but still very typical Japanese.
One of these guys was also carrying a pack of enormous dimensions, but he explained that all it contained was water. "I do this every weekend, Saturday or Sunday I come here from Tokyo to walk up to the top. I'm training for climbing Everest." Wow, respect! Another impressive sight was offered us by two young guys coming down: One of them was wearing a pair of old army boots that must have been pretty beaten when he bought them many years before, wearing them down to a state of near uselessness. Now, he probably wanted to give them a final challenge before discarding them. His companion was even beyond that point. The footwear he chose to climb Fuji in were a pair of equally tattered Chuck Taylors, covered in a generous amount of duct-tape, without which they might have disintegrated into nothing.
Our shoes, though not quite this extreme, weren't not much for hiking either. Though mine used to have a decent traction at some point, I had been wearing them every day for almost a year, walking mostly on concrete city streets, and they had become quite thin. Dozi, however, came wearing a pair of old sneakers, in a similarly pitiful state. Latter on this trip, especially on the way down, he came to call them bear traps, from how comfortable they felt. Being aware of the shortcomings of our footwear, we had considered buying new hiking boots, but quickly discarded the idea. I think everyone makes the mistake once in their life, though rarely a second time, of going hiking in brand new shoes. If we had done that, we would have never made it, and with all probability perished somewhere on the way...
Before we knew it, we were up on 7th Station. At this point the vegetation had completely stopped, and we were walking in a desert of volcanic rocks and ash. All around us the clouds were moving rapidly, and it was getting colder. We donned our sweaters. Because the official Fuji season ends in August, and it was late September, most of the stations were closed. Those that were not, such as 7th Station, had only a limited selection of things. Fortunately coffee was one of them. We enjoyed the hot drink with some cookies from our bag. Then onward.
It was getting late. From the info leaflet, we had picked up at 5th Station, we would read the info about the differences in hight between stations, the distance we'd have to walk, and the time it would take us. Of course we felt way above the average, and especially after reaching 6th Station in considerable less time, we knew we could get back in time to catch the bus. The higher we got, however, the more difficult it became, and the longer we needed for each station. Eventually, we knew we would be just in accordance with the data given on the leaflet.
After 7th Station came 8th Station, followed by The Real 8th Station, after which came Station 8½, or something like that. We felt like trapped in a typical donkey & carrot scenario, but at this point turning back as out of question. We had already abandoned any hope of going back by bus, as the last one was scheduled to leave 5th Station around the time we reached Station 8-9. Instead we decided to descend the other side, since we had to walk to the nearest town anyway. The last encouragement for this we received from an elderly gentleman coming the other way, just after passing 9th Station. After hearing our idea, his only reply was: "Are you all right in your head?" Hmmm.....
Dragging our aching bodies up the last climbs, and especially towards the end the path seemed to be steeper and steeper, we finally made it to the summit. Not only was it closed, but the building itself was covered by rocks, prepared for the winter, when Fuji would be wearing a cap of snow until way into the summer months. Being on the top was not enough for us, however. We wanted to reach the highest part of the peak, which happened to be at the weather station on the other side of the crater. Half an hour, and a long hike in fine volcanic ash, we had even conquered that peak, and proudly looked around. We were there, standing on the highest point of Japan. Around us we could see a desert island floating on an ocean of clouds. In the distance we could see the sun, a bright red ball, diving into the western clouds. We felt like kings of the world.
This feeling soon gave way to slight, but steadily growing worries concerning the cold and the darkness that were quickly descending upon us, not to mention the climb down that still lay ahead of us, and decided to postpone the wine and the celebration until we'd get to a road on the other side. So we each ate a banana, I put on my pant legs, we got our our Chinese flashlights from the 100 yen store, and headed down the Gotenba path.We soon got a taste of the real challenge as we were confronted with the utter and complete darkness. First the moon, close to its full phase, gave a faint hope of light, but soon it decided to hide behind thick clouds, not coming out again that night. We realized that our flashlights weren't worth the 100 yen we'd payed for them, and that the sheer absence of people... or pretty much anything except for rocks, as long as one could imagine, put us in a scary situation. The only fortunate thing, the one constant feature of the foreboding landscape, was the path of some maintenance machine. We could just see the tracks it left in a long winding sand path. And we knew, that that machine had to take the easiest way, the one with the least inclination, and that it would not stop somewhere abruptly, but go on all the way down. So this path we clung to like drowning people to a straw.
We kept walking and walking, virtually blind. The light of our flashlights was just enough to illuminate the ground oround our feet, but if we directed it anywhere else it got hopelessly lost. Dozi related this experience to diving along a wall. You lose all your senses about which way is up or down, left or right. For us, we could have been who knows where. Darkness, silence, dust and sand. That was our whole world, that's what filled our existence. We had no idea how long we had been walking, nor how much lay ahead of us. Judging from the many curves, we must have been walking quite a long cut, but at least it was fairly even, and safe. We had to stop frequently to pour the sand out of our shoes, but then we had no other option but keep waking.
Since time had no meaning for us, we could even say that we reached the parking lot quite quickly. Of course it took us an eternity. But when we got there, the celebration couldn't have been surpassed. Sure, 5th Station on the Gotenba side had not much to show for, at least compared to the Kawaguchi-ko side. There was an empty parking lot, a toilet building, and a bus-stop type booth, where we sat down and prepared our feast. It was the same French picnic deal, but the best one I've ever had. And the wine... mmmmm!
After eating and drinking we were ready to move on. This parking lot was no place to stay, after all. The idea was to walk on to Gotenba and catch a train to Okitsu, where the famous Minaguchi-ya stands, from Oliver Statler's book Japanese Inn. So we continued walking and walking, for what seemed like another eternity. Passing along a road through the woods on the foot of Fuji, walking past the US Army baste "Camp Fuji" followed by commercial and light industrial sections, then suburbs, eventually we got into Gotenba. By that time it was way past midnight, but people seemed to be still up and about. Or at least getting home from the bars. It must be a long weekend.
At the station we realized, not to our surprise, that there were no more trains, so we got out the rest of our wine, the cheese, and the cigarettes, and gathered cardboard boxes to lie on, playing European gutter punks. It seemed to work quite well, judging from the scared expressions of the few Japanese hard-core bar flies, who had just been kicked out of the Isakaya. We awoke early the next morning, just in time to catch the train to Okitsu, where we would experience a public bath that only the Japanese could offer, and visit the famous Minaguchi-ya.
