Michelle Eve A. de Guzman, BMC October 2007

The author (right) and friends prepare to climb Mt. Fuji.

During the Japanese Obon Holiday, we counted on the fact that there would be a lot of people climbing Mt. Fuji. Claudine, Verna, Grace and I honestly thought we could do it on the sweltering summer of August, just the four of us. I initially told them that I may dislike the physical strenuousness of it all, but I do love the bragging rights if I at least set foot on the mountain that we see on clear mornings. They all agreed with me, and so to Fuji it was.

The fact that I was excited was already weird in itself because ever since I climbed Mt. Oyama last year, I swore off mountains for good. My face would get so red! And I would feel my heartbeat on my cheeks. I absolutely knew I was not a mountain person.

After researching on the Internet for tips on what to bring (I climbed up and down the stairs 100 times for five nights before the trip to get my body used to the climbing), we boarded the night bus to Mt. Fuji’s fifth station, halfway up. Our backpacks were loaded with chocolates, raingear, flashlight, winter clothes, extra leggings and socks, hat, and 2.5 liters of water. We were taking to heart an advice I found on the Internet, “These warnings are not a joke; every year, inadequately prepared people die on Fuji.”

From bustling Shinjuku, we ended up on the Yoshidaguchi Trail leading to the Kawaguchiko fifth station (1776 meters) at around 10:15pm. Our plan was to climb the mountain all night so we could reach the top around sunrise. But we wanted to take it slow so we wouldn't get dizzy and vomit from altitude sickness. Since we didn't have insurance of any kind, we wanted to play it safe and just go at our own pace. Did we ever.

At first, since it was nighttime and we were lucky enough to have clear skies (the forecast said thunderstorms but what do they know), I was so awed by the view as we climbed from the 5th station to the 6th to the 7th. The rocks and the endless path were all made doable because of the breathtaking view of the stars.

Because we walked slowly, we only got to the 8th station when the sun painstakingly creeped through the clouds right in front of us at 5am. Grace and I left Verna and Claudine behind, so we didn’t know anyone else. We were alone as we faced that sunrise, and I never felt so blessed. My legs were tired, but it was without a doubt worth it.

Thirty minutes later, since the top of Fuji (3776 m) is probably about 22 degrees colder than Tokyo, I bought a cup of Nissin Cup Noodles for 300 pesos. Anything hot was so welcome because it got so windy that there were warnings on the trail that you might get blown away!

We also met a Japanese Buddhist priest who was probably doing a ritual to the rising sun, and who, upon knowing we came from the Philippines and that we were Christians, blessed us. He spoke great English, and had great eyes.

We learned that Mt. Fuji is an important religious center: nearly 2,000 religious organizations are based around the mountain, including one of Japan’s largest Buddhist sects.

By this time, I realized one incredibly important thing that I did not even consider: I am and will forever be afraid of heights. You can only imagine what it was like when I first hit the 3000m mark and realized the clouds were below me. I remember when I was on my way to the last hut on the 8th station, and I had to walk across a bend with no railing whatsoever. I could see the infinite steep drop, the tendrils of clouds against the clear blue sky, and the rest of the volcanic dust and rocks on the horizon. I faced the wall and groped my way through. All I thought was "Shit! Shit! Shit!"

My legs were doing okay. But for every 10 steps up I took, I had to stop and take deep breaths. That was how tiring it became because of the altitude. Every step was a chore, and I found my heart beating so fast, it worried me. The thin air was also a problem that I was breathed out of my oxygen tank.

This thing I was climbing really was a mountain.

According to the websites, the average climber can climb to the top in six hours, the slowest 10 hours. It took us eleven hours, and guess what? We didn’t even reach the top! Grace and I only got to the first torii (gate) 40 minutes away from the top. That was probably around 3670 meters (the top is 3770 meters).

I know what you are all thinking. We were so close! With a little rest and more time, we could have gotten to the crater. But this was during the time when I only had a quarter of a 500ml water bottle with me, and Grace had zero. We couldn’t handle 40 minutes of climbing to go.

At first we tried to brave it. We passed the 9.5th station mark. A very kind Japanese father with his son even gave us their water bottle on their way up. But we stopped. The really high altitude, the thin air, and the sun’s rays harshly beating down our backs were too much. Grace looked as if she was about to get sick, and I felt so tired. We were thinking about the five hours we still needed to go down in time for our 3pm bus.

We agreed that we just had to give up. It was heart wrenching to realize that we will not be able to reach the top after climbing rocks, and crawling upwards all night and half a morning long. We had to endure 5 kilos of stuff on our backpacks. We had to climb in the dark. But all we could think about, while we were up above the clouds, was the damned 3pm bus home. Home. We really wanted to go home at that time.

I wanted to cry because we had no choice. If we continued on the way up, it was 40 minutes (it would take an hour for us slow climbers) with little water, and a big chance of missing the bus home. If we went down, it was about an hour to the nearest station. We were just stuck there, making up our minds in the middle of a steep, rocky and barren mountain top. After kissing the torii goodbye (the crater was only 40 minutes away after all!), we carefully made our way down the rocks and red mounds of land. The little, old ladies we met on the 8th station were astonished we were giving up.

We met Verna and Claudine thirty minutes later, and we proceeded descending to the 8.5th station. After this, we hit the descending gravel road.

The descent. Of all the aspects of Mt. Fuji, the worst part was the way down. The gravel road was an endless zigzag of sometimes really steep slopes. There were probably 50 turns. Endless. Hot. My feet absolutely hurt, and my brain was numb from walking for too long. I had to keep on thinking about where to put my foot so I wouldn't twist my ankle, or slide and fall. High school kids ran past us. People walked past us. We walked down that stupid endless road, not knowing how we would ever reach the bus on time.

My polyester shirt was soaked, and the wind was blowing. The sun, with its UV rays at that height, was severe on our skin. I was cursing Mt. Fuji. I hated Mt. Fuji so much. We didn't know where in the mountain we were. It was just endless volcanic ash on that gravel bulldozer trail. My poor Nikes were never the same again.

When we got to the 6th station after 4 hours or so down, the travel agent called asking where we were. It was 3pm. She said (in the usual Japanese polite fashion) that we already paid for the bus tickets so they had to wait for us. I was in a pretty bad mood so I just said that we were coming.
Every turn we took, we looked for the 5th station sign. We were absolutely dismayed to realize we still had to walk 40 minutes to get there. I repeatedly wondered why I was there in the first place when I hated mountains and physical exercise. Half of me felt it was worth it, but half felt otherwise. At that point, I thought the whole thing was an absolute nightmare, and I just wanted it to end.

We speed-walked our way down. I thumped my walking stick hard. I stepped down the steep gravel road hard. I was angry at myself for being in that position.

We reached the bus 20 minutes late. The little old ladies, and some teenagers were staring at us through the window no doubt thinking how rude we foreigners were for making them wait 20 minutes. Who cared? I was just immensely relieved that I was on my way home at last; I was safe, in one piece, and that was all that mattered. I was off that mountain at last.

When I got home, I slept.

When I woke up, my body was so sore that I had to put Salon-pas-like plasters all over. But I was okay. I survived and lived to tell the tale, which now that I think about it, was the whole point anyway. Telling the tale. Bearing the battlescars. Having the right to say I managed to walk for 17 hours straight up Mt. Fuji with no vomiting or fainting. And I had pictures to prove to my grandkids. What a story this would make.

Author Edwin Bernbaum once explained that Japan’s sacred history and national identity are very much tied to this mountain. He said that it “symbolizes the quest for beauty and perfection that has shaped so much of Japanese culture, both secular and sacred.”

Mt. Fuji was beautiful. From afar. In Japan, there’s a saying that you were wise if you climbed Mt. Fuji, but you’d be a fool to climb it twice. Once was enough for me, even if I didn’t get to the very top. Claudine wants to go back again given the chance. She’s crazy.

Until now, I can't believe I went through the most challenging physical torture of my life (which, seeing as I am not an athletic person, isn't really saying much). I still hate Fuji immensely. But now, I hate it with respect.

Here is to the beautiful Fuji where I almost died. Cheers. | back