This article appeared in THE WEEKEND ARGUS Travel Supplement

5th November 2005

It had previously appeared on iafrica.com’s travel pages in August 2003.

Not so for many long- and short-term visitors to Japan. Seduced by photographs of its perfect volcanic cone crowned with an exquisite dusting of snow, clusters of gaijin (foreigners) throughout ultra-modern Japan relish the opportunity to get interactive with this “traditional” symbol. The majority stumble away from the encounter disillusioned by bad weather, altitude sickness or bleak views; some even fall victim to the ill-hygiene of the mountain’s numerous litter-strewn rest stations. For a few, however, the gamble pays off.
We made the ascent during the “official summer climbing season” (a standard gesture in regulated Japan). Herein lies the great conundrum: those beautiful images of Fuji, majestic in the distance with pale pink cherry blossoms or burning red maple leaves in the foreground, are products of the cooler months when the air is crisp and clear. The Japanese summer is hot and humid, and Fuji is covered in cloud and haze most of the time, invisible behind a grey wall stretching up 2000 metres. So it’s quite possible to climb up the mountain without ever actually seeing it.

Our starting point was the town of Fujinomiya, a minor concrete jungle in the vast conurbation of central Japan. Spattering rain. No sign of Fuji-san. We bussed up the southern slopes to the route’s go-gome or fifth station, the usual point of departure for amateur climbers; a straining engine and our popping ears told us we were getting higher, and quickly. If the weather was gloomy, so were we – until a few patches of late-afternoon blue sky appeared. Soon it was clear, and when we climbed out of the bus, a strange sight greeted us: a blanket of cloud 100 feet below. We were now over halfway up. Well, that was easy enough.

We had decided to follow the tradition of climbing at night, with the aim of reaching the summit just before dawn. So we swallowed a carbo-boosting Cup Noodle (the name says it all) as the light faded, and browsed the souvenir shop that has a monopoly on mountain-related merchandise. The biggest seller is, of course, the “official” wooden walking stick; we merrily parted with Y1,000 (about R80), enthused at the prospect of having our sticks branded at each station to prove our accomplishment. A small set of bells is tied to the top of each stick. This odd feature would be understandable in the wilds of the Canadian Rockies (warding off bears) or in the Swiss Alps (fitting the cow-covered pastoral cliché) … but in Japan? Ostensibly for safety, they’re jingly and irritating – but they’re “cute”, and that makes them a Japanese must. Suffice to say we took our bells off.

So, bell-free sticks in our right hands and torches in our left, we set off. The night-climbing theory is that, in the land of the rising sun, you just can’t get a better seat than at 3776 metres. But what’s the point of climbing a mountain, you may ask, if you can’t appreciate the views on the way up? Well, in harsh hot midday sunlight, the upper half of Fuji-san hardly presents an inspiring landscape. During the summer, the snow melts away to reveal a lifeless brown-grey-black mountain surface; the crumbling soil and rock might be the residue of spectacular prehistoric volcanic eruptions, but it can be depressingly monotonous on dry days, and on wet days it turns into a nightmarish dull sludge. And did I mention that it’s hot?

More encouragingly, however, there are actually amazing views on a mountain at night. For starters, look straight up. This is no typical nightscape. The stars are spectacular. The moon dances behind clouds or rocky outcrops and, when it dances out again, the dimly lit sky brings the black silhouette of the mountainside into stark contrast, reminding you (if your legs aren’t already) of the steep gradient. Looking down, you can track your progress by following the distant bobbing torches of climbers further down, or the fixed lights of stations you have already passed. The blanket of cloud below lets through isolated glowing patches, but the cities are long forgotten and do not threaten the enormous quiet of the mountain. You glance nervously over your shoulder at the looming bank of black cloud that rises even as you climb, and think of those stories you have heard others tell about thunderstorms and driving wind and torrential rain. There’s no doubting it, the almost invisible mountain has a remarkable presence. 

With altitude, inevitably, came the cold, and as we approached the summit the necessary rest breaks became less and less bearable. Fortunately our under-dressed bodies were kept warm enough with the energy spent on the climb, and there was respite in the friendly spirit of encouragement shared by climbers, irrespective of language barriers. A cheery “gambatte kudasai” (“good luck, please” – it’s only polite) worked wonders!

And then we were at the top. Somehow a jubilant Everest-style whooping and throwing of arms into the air didn’t quite seem appropriate, and there was no light to capture the moment in a photo, but we all had a quiet sense of achievement. We spent a cold and uncomfortable hour between a cluster of ramshackle buildings (which we later discovered included a post office and a small Shinto shrine); at about 4:00am, the sky began to lighten and we set off to the east side of the crater to watch the sun rise. Glorious oranges and pinks fired up a more-than-blue sky on the horizon, the surrounding mountain tops forming islands in a sea of cloud. A new day. A new world.

But let’s not get romantic. It was freezing, and the insult of Y500 (R40) for a small cup of coffee – a shameless exploitation of the exhausted masses! – was all the encouragement we needed, after a couple of hours, to begin the descent. This was the tough part. Our knees wobbled, our toes blistered, our calves struggled against the crumbling sand. The weather was far too good, we were far too close to the sun, we had far too little sunscreen and, worst of all, we made the mistake of following the longest route down – to the Gotemba base station, 1000m lower than the rest. At about 11:00am, we hobbled to a halt and sat down to glasses of Pocari Sweat, a soft-drink which is supposed to sound refreshing in Japanese English. We cursed. We threw our shoes into the bin. Relief.

Two bus trips later we dragged our weary, sun-burnt bodies into a hot bath. Then, after 36 hours (13 getting there, 7 going up, 4 on top, 4 coming down, 8 wishing the world would end) it was time to get some sleep. And the disappearing mountain? Well, it was a close thing, and we had almost given up hope: but craning our necks and squinting our eyes to look through the train windows on the way home, we managed to glimpse the feint outline of a distant, high, brooding, instantly recognisable sight. It was Fuji-san.