The sun shined brightly into eyes tired from a night of peering into darkness. My legs refused to be moved much faster than the flow of the mob of shaky thighs, tight calves, and burning shins around them. Feeling slightly light-headed and quite irritated, I didn’t feel much of a desire to enjoy the scenery; if I could have punched Mt. Fuji, I would have. I held the entire pile of red and black volcanic rock in absolute contempt. I now stood on top of it, but I felt little satisfaction. It had been a difficult climb and my only reward for the effort was a crowded, igneous tourist attraction.
The Japanese never miss an opportunity to make prostitutes out of their most famous, ancient, or beautiful places. Like tourist attractions worldwide, Mt. Fuji has been developed from dirt and dust into a fantasy land. A Shinto shrine selling a wide range of trinkets greeted my squinting eyes, followed by a cafe and miniature grocery store. Further onward was a seasonal post office, only open a few months of the year. A flag marked the highest point in Japan, a torii gate marked some place sacred, and a toilet marked the hottest tourist attraction of all.
My disgust with the mob of morons who didn’t appear nearly as tired or grumpy as I quickly dissipated into a cloud of desire to use the facilities. My male Canadian companion shared in the desire, while our female friend declined in favor of perhaps cleaner facilities down mountain. We joined the nearly thirty other people waiting in line and started to make our bets on how much it would cost to use the urinal. At the sixth station, use of the restroom was fifty yen. How much could it be here, at the top, where tourist prices also peaked, we wondered.
Before we met with relief, we were suddenly introduced to absence of cleanliness. It smelled as though every last hiker that had graced the restroom before us had aimed everywhere except into the toilet. And if that weren’t insulting enough, we eventually found out it cost 200 yen to enjoy the sights and smells of this wonderful destination on top of Mt. Fuji. I handed my fee over to the least admirable part time worker I’ve ever seen and moved like a mongoose towards the urinals.
I burst out of the bathroom perhaps a moment later, greeted by fresh air and perspective. I was still tired, yes, but being on top of a mountain I had come to respect once the hate had subsided was still much better than paying 200 yen to choke on stench while I peed on it.
I was really there! My mind began to truly accept the gravity of our situation. We had climbed for several hours, gone thousands of meters up, and were now standing on a mountain the Japanese say you would be a fool to climb twice. And it was truly beautiful. Beyond the throngs of tourists was a skyline rarely glimpsed by earth-bound mortals like us: the higher clouds floated peacefully over our heads, shading the glaring morning sun, while the lower clouds sauntered over fields of green separated by meandering rivers.
But enough of the sky.
Mt. Fuji is a volcano, and only recently has it been fairly quiet. It last erupted in the 19th century, which I suppose in geological time is about ten seconds ago, so I felt a slight sense of danger standing on the rim of its vast crater. My friends and I decided it was time for a break for snacks and contemplation while staring into the gaping hole unseen in classic renditions of Mt. Fuji. I sat down on some less sharp rocks and pulled off my now significantly lighter backpack. The three of us exchanged food, drink, and jokes. We took several photos in triumphant poses and basked in the afterglow of our victory over the volcano.
Sadly, what climbs up, must climb down.
It began to dawn on us that we couldn’t remain much longer at the top. None of us had the energy or the desire to wander around the crater itself. That was something for the jerks intelligent enough to stay in a lodge for the night and rise with the sun to enjoy their time fully rested. I was nowhere near rested and starting to feel the urge to sleep. Sitting down was doing me no good, so it was time to move.
We climbed back out of the crater and took one last glimpse at the outstanding view. My companions took a video and we shared in one last laugh at the mountain. Foolish, I suppose, to laugh at a mountain like Fuji. Had I known that the hike was not nearly over, I would have held my tongue. As it was, I looked forward to reuniting with my girlfriend and making our way easily and safely to the fifth station.
My hopes soon started to slip with my feet. While the climb up, especially towards the upper half, had been over boulders, up poorly carved stairs, and any other basaltic obstacles to be found, the climb down was over loose gravel. Tractors had pushed and flattened the side of Fuji into a sort of conveyor belt for the tourists no longer spending money at the top. Fearing death by slip of the foot, I carefully made my way down, learning along the way that not only were the muscles of my legs tired, but my knees too.
Yet, as they say in Japan, the nail that sticks out will get pounded down. In this case, the foreigner that slows down descending a mountain will get run over. Streams of hikers started approaching from behind. All the tour groups that had reached the top around 4:30 AM were now scheduled to descend and trample anyone in their way. Experienced hikers and children without a sense of mortality began flying by, kicking gravel and good sense to the wind. Soon I was finding myself facing fear or flattening and choosing to overcome the former to save my hide from boot marks. We gathered speed and the pain in my knees went from a mumble to a roar.
We pulled to the side of the path and managed to stop while the increasingly larger flow of people continued downward. I managed to find a signal and called my girlfriend. She had been resting with a group of compatriots who also fell victim to the thin air and felt much better now with a little tea and refreshments in her. We embraced, happy to be together again, and talked about how much we looked forward to reaching the bottom.
That’s when we all decided it was time to look down and see if we could glimpse the bottom. The hand-drawn map we had received hours ago indicated that we would be taking a 九十九折 or tsutzuraori to the bottom.
Tsutzuraori literally means ninety-nine folds, but is translated as a “zigzag”. The ori in tsutzuraori is the same ori found in origami, folded paper. Imagine the side of a mountain made into a flat plane of square paper. Now fold that paper ninety-nine times. Now imagine going from one point of the paper to the other, but having to trace the lines of all those folds you just made. Now a trip from point A to point B has become an endless nightmare from point A to point of no return.
Coincidentally, the character for ori also takes on the meanings of “to break” and “to submit”. And break us until submission, Mt. Fuji did. We of little faith quickly abandoned hope and found ourselves in a two-hour long ordeal with identical switchbacks that slowly, painfully, unrelentingly brought us back down the mountain. My girlfriend and I looked down at every turn only to exclaim, “Again?”
We finally reached a restroom and my girlfriend joined the expectedly enormous line. Our Canadian commiserators had fallen behind due to understandable joint pain, so I found myself alone on the ground amongst a mass of hiking tour groups. Sleep started tapping me on the shoulder and I fought to stay awake. It wasn’t yet time to pass out. I still had no idea how long it would be until we returned to the fifth station, but I didn’t want to close my eye lids much until then.
After perhaps twenty minutes, my girlfriend reappeared from the bathroom and we returned to the zigzag. Eventually, it ended and we began thinking we were close. Surely this was the fifth station. Just around this bend. Just over that hill. Just beyond those trees. We kept thinking and thinking, hoping and hoping, finding ourselves deeply disappointed at the never-ending tsutzuraori of joy and pain. It occurred to me that while the trail going up Mt. Fuji had been somewhat diagonal and thus going in a somewhat straight path towards the top, the descent had taken us well west of the fifth station, and now we were circling the fatter end of the volcano.
We broke the tree line and continued onward. My girlfriend was quite upset and I was at my wits end. Not wanting to miss an opportunity to milk a little more money from already lightened wallets, several people I thought of only the most profane ways sat in horse drawn carriages. For only a couple thousand yen, they would drag your worn-out carcass to the finish line. We adamantly refused to give anything to them and kept on walking.
Just as we were about to reach the point of defeat, we saw a sign. Not the biblical sort, just a wooden sign. It was the one we had seen when we first started ascending Mt. Fuji the night before. It pointed towards the fifth station. We were getting close, and this time it wasn’t just a silly dream. We saw happy, energetic people going the other direction, enthusiastic about their walk up the mighty mountain. They laughed and smiled, carrying their backpacks with undeniable ease.
I hated every last one of them.
And then…
finally…
there it was.
The fifth station came into view. My girlfriend and I approached with caution, unsure whether we would be tricked again, only to have to amble on even further. Yet it was truly the end. My girlfriend grabbed her camera and asked one of those despicable smiling, energetic types to snap a picture of us. I managed to smile and started dreaming of a cold beverage and a place to lie down.
We stumbled over towards the square between the two rows of shops and restaurants. Yuka went to buy ice cream while I headed to a vending machine selling sports drinks. We joined a group of fellow climbers, several already dozing wearily, on the ground by the bus stop. I started pulling off my now quite disgusting jacket and shoes. My ankle decided it would make itself heard as I started stretching and rotating it. I was exhausted. I laid out my jacket, propped my backpack into a pillow, found a somewhat comfortable position, and passed out.
After that, I only woke up to move. I got up and bought some souvenirs, boarded the bus back down the mountain, and went back to sleep. I woke up, changed busses for Tokyo, and returned to slumber. We arrived in Shinjuku, had some food, and then said goodbye to the Canadians. Yuka and I looked around for a hotel. After some searching, we found a reasonably priced motel and got a room. I took one of the best showers I’d had in a long time. I put on some clean clothes and lay down in my bed. My girlfriend came out of the shower and found me fast asleep.
I didn’t wake up for fourteen hours.
