travel tuesday | climbing mt. fuji

Today, I'm heading back to Japan, in pictures at least. To the tip-top of Japan. To above the clouds, and below the sky. To the point where exhaustion gives way to accomplishment. To Fuji-san, or Mt. Fuji, for we English speakers.

Standing at 12,388 feet tall (3447 meters), Mt. Fuji is no short order hike, though it is the most climbed mountain in the world.

Nearly anyone can summit Mt. Fuji. You don't need mountaineering equipment, oxygen takes, or extended time to acclimate, and it only takes about 8-10 hours in total (only! ha!). It's possible to hike it as an out-and-back, and most people do it that way. But don't take that the wrong way. Old Fuji is a bastard of a climb. 

The traditional way to climb Mt. Fuji is to start hiking at sunset and climb all night, until at long last, you see sunrise from the summit, above the clouds. I stubbornly chose to do it this way, starting on the same day that I visited three temples in Kyoto and spent 6 hours on trains. I hit a severe, dangerous wall of exhaustion. I don't recommend that.

Hiking Fuji at night felt Biblical to me. I think that's an entirely strange comparison, especially to make in Japan, but I have no better words for it. The mountain looms foreboding as you step out onto it, and the night grows darker when it's already black. The only light you see are the headlamps of fellow trekkers, a luminescent, bobbing glow snaking up into an the ethereal unknown. In my exhaustion and delirium, the story of the Three Wise Men came as naturally to mind as my want for rest and water, and I thought, this is probably what their journey looked and felt like, some 2000 years ago. Less poetically, climbing Fuji-san at night engenders a feeling of tight knit community through a common cause and goal.

 

The ascent to the top of Mt. Fuji is marked by stations. There are nine in total. Instead of hiking through the night, many trekkers opt to rent bunk-bed style futons in huts located at the 8th station. The 8th station is a blessed bastion. You can purchase hot ramen, tea, water, and generally rest your tired eyes and sore feet before pushing through the final, steep climb to the top. I do recommend these huts.

At the base of the mountain, and at souvenir shops for miles surrounding it, there are opportunities to purchase walking sticks. At each of the nine stations on the mountain, the walking sticks are stamped with proof of your tenacity and endurance. The stamps are imprinted with hot irons, emblazoning the stick and emboldening the trekker to make it that much higher. 

There is a Japanese proverb that says, "A wise man climbs Fuji once. A fool climbs it twice."

Trekkers on the mountain take rest on rocks, bits of dirt and gravel and hardened lava. Sometimes those people have a foot in the path, or their pack falls onto the trail. In the 12 hours I spent on Fuji-san, not one person was rude, or told someone to move. I only heard kind words, spoken to others and to me. Climbing Mt. Fuji epitomizes the Japanese spirit - community, a helping hand, kinship.

Truth be told, climbing Mt. Fuji is my greatest accomplishment and regret in my time in Japan. I tried to do too much in too short a time, and I faced the consequences: I crashed and burned (and fell asleep in a bowl of ramen) at Station 8, so shy of the summit I could see it in my reach. I may be a fool - I know I'm a fool - but I'll do it again someday.

if you go... 

climbing season is in july & august

starting point: Kawaguchiko 5th station on the Yoshida Trail

from Tokyo, take a bus from Shinjuku to the trail head at the 5th station

 bring layers; it's cold at the top even in summer 

mt. fuji walking stick: 1000Yen (~$10-$20) / stamps: 200Yen ($2-5)

climbing guide

my other posts on japan...

cycling the 70km shimanami-kaido 

my hometown: yamato, hikari, yamaguchi

sugarloaf mountain northern peaks trail (blue)

I've been thinking about the woods behind my childhood home. Newnan, Georgia is one of the biggest metro-Atlanta suburban areas now. When my family moved there, way back in 1990, it wasn't like that. It was downright rural then. My subdivision was sprawling, the nooks and crannies filled with uncharted nature that seemed endless to a kid. They were eventually filled in with houses, and the woods became short paths to visit our neighbors. But for most of my childhood, the woods were the woods, and there was a lot of them back there. 

Directly behind my house, the woods went back and back and back for as far as I could imagine. I explored them by day, and tip-toed a step or two into them at night, before running back to my house scared. My brother and I, and my friends and I, bushwhacked through them, creating our own trails we remembered by the broken limbs and eventually well worn paths. I learned to suck on honeysuckle and spot poison ivy, and we built forts out of tree covers and played hide-and-seek and foxes and hounds in the bush.

When we first moved to Newnan, we lived with my uncle down the street for a few months, while my mom closed on what would be our home. My Uncle Mike lived only 7 houses down from where we would live for the next 15 years, but the woods behind his house were a whole other world. His woods were even vaster. There were rolling hills and large rocks that seemed like boulders to my little eyes. There was a stream that ran who knows how far. My brother trekked the length of it more than once. I thought he was the strongest and bravest. I was maybe six or seven years old.

I jumped from rock to rock, and in the creek played leap frog on the pebbles, trying to never let my toes get wet, else I lose the game. I balanced with my arms outstretched on fallen trees, walking on my tip-toes the entire length of them, pretending I was an Olympic gymnast like Shannon Miller. 

In 1993, Atlanta had a blizzard - the "storm of the century!" Really, they called it that. Even wikipedia remembers. I'd never seen snow, and my mom woke my brother and me up early, so so early, as the wet, white stuff came down in sheets. It covered our lawn, probably only inches at most, but I swear it went up to our waists. 

Of course, all of metro Atlanta shut down, and that meant no school. We bundled up as best we could - there's a shortage of winter coats when you live way down south, and we convinced our black lab puppy, Shadow, to come play with us. We threw the first snowballs of our lives, wrestled in it, sledded down the sloping hills of our neighborhood streets, and tried to find the trails we'd blazed in the in the snow-covered woods. 

All of these childhood memories came flooding back to me this weekend when Zander, Theo and I went hiking at Sugarloaf Mountain in Dickerson, Maryland. It was a quiet day, cold and icy. The first quarter mile of the Northern Peaks blue-blazed trail we attempted was iced over and treacherous. Fortunately the trail cleared up after that, the snow provided a beautiful back drop, and we were able to finish the 5.5 mile loop. 

After passing the White Rock Overlook, about 2.5 miles in, we descended until we passed a unique tree formation. One tree arched over like the top of a swing set, and another intersected it like a jungle gym. I had to stop (for the millionth time) to take a picture. Growing up in the woods hit me so hard, and I had this thought that if I were ever a playground contractor, visionary - this is what would inspire me. Then I thought I wouldn't have a job for very long, because I'd tell kids to come play in the woods. They're the real playgrounds. 

Don't you want to swing from that arch, and climb and jump off and hang upside down? 

At White Rock Overlook, the view itself didn't take my breath away - it was the little red farmhouse, so proud and distinct in the distance, that did it. What is it about that iconic image that takes me somewhere I've never been, every single time I see it?

 

Hiking makes me feel young again, like we can all stop time for those miles we're breathing hard and sweating in the woods, convincing ourselves we can make it to the top. The peaks I summit and the trails I meander are longer and higher and tougher than the woods behind my childhood house, but my love for them started at 365 Freestone Drive, in the subdivision without a sign. You can spot it by the three giant boulders on the right-hand side of the road. 

Want to hike Sugarloaf? I recommend the blue-blazed Northern Peaks Trail. It's a less-traversed trail on the busy mountain. You'll be stunned by the green-moss covered rocks, giant oaks that shade your way, and views that include a certain little red farmhouse. Read more about it on LocalHikes.

oh hey, PS - I ran about a mile of this trail, too, just like I did after Old Rag. This is becoming a habit. I'm thinking of trying out trail running. Do you have any suggestions on routes, running trails, shoes, etc? Want to run with me? I'd love to hear from you!

old rag mountain | shenandoah national park

I did two crazy things while hiking Old Rag this weekend:

1. I threw a temper tantrum near the peak.


2. I ran the last mile.

Forget the first one, forever. (Let's never talk about it again, mmmk?) But did you read #2? I ran the last mile of the 9 mile hike that is Old Rag. As Liz Lemon would say, "I want to go to there!"

Wait. Wrong catchphrase.

"WHAT THE WHAT?!" There it is.

I can only claim temporary insanity (Zan would beg to differ on the "temporary." See: crazy thing #1 that I did).

So here's what happened...

Zan and I had reached the assumed summit and were starving and half-dead, ready to set up camp for lunch. We’d managed the 5 mile ascent without breaking off our limbs. We’d traversed the uneven terrain and navigated the extensive class 3 rock scrambling section leading to the top. We’d done all that without collapsing even once (there was that one rock that I hallucinated to be a bed, but that’s neither here nor there). We scrambled to the tip-top of a super duper high rock and took in the 360 degree view. For 20 seconds.

Snap.



Snap.



I took two photos, circling and cheerily announced, “Ready for my sammie!” and began the slow, painful descent to a sitting position, before I realized no one was listening. I think a few kind tree branches leaned in, lending a leafy ear. Zan was 20 feet ahead, hiking onward.

I called out. “Zan! (Zan! Zan!)” I yelled three times to create my own cool mountain peak echo.

“Where ya goin’?” I was casual, cool, laser eyes locked into the back of his pack, that held my sammie.

Grunt. Gruntgrunt.

Yes, I nodded. Sure, I see. He saw a higher peak that way (point). This isn’t the summit.

I grunted back.

“I don’t WANNA go. THIS is the summit. UGHHH SAMMIE GIVE ME SAMMIE.” Grunt. Grunt.

(Our communication talents are unique and should not be tried at home.)

He had the sammies, and so what could I do? I gave a reverential salute to my perfect peak and the breeze hugged me in return. We scrambled, climbed, scraped hands, skipped rocks, held on to branches, scooted through crevices...





...and finally arrived where Zan had grunted and pointed – to the “summit over there.” It was an astounding… clump of barren, brown trees obscuring the view on all sides.****



I HRMPHD, loudly, in his direction.

Zan HRMPHD back.

We HRMPHD and HRMPHD.

Two hikers passed us, probably thinking, “By golly, those two need a sammie.” That’s what I was thinking.

You know that point when you’re too tired to see the solution that’s right in front of you? We were so ungodly far beyond that point.

He grunted.

I grunted.

I broke off a branch and threw it.

He tore off the tree trunk and chucked it over the edge.

We beat our chests.

I cried.

He cried.

We slept standing.

We woke still furious.

We sighed.

I finally regained enough energy to properly stomp my foot.

I whined. “I just need a hug.” (And a damn sammie on a beautiful overlook, but I kept that to myself, in the name of compromise and conflict resolution. I truly handled the argument like a totally sane adult.)

We hugged.

I checked the time.

4.5 minutes had passed.

We walked back 50 yards, and alas, a perfect picnic peak shone bright and glimmering in the afternoon sun and we had a wonderful, quiet picnic... and then I played like a 4-year-old on the rocks and made Zander take 100 photos of me doing so.





Ahem, where was I?

Oh right, the time I ran a mile on a 9 mile hike (I thought we promised to never talk about that other thing?!).

We reached the fire road, finally, oh god, after Zan had destroyed his tendonitis plagued knees, and my body could not take one more single step downwards (seriously, I’d rather climb up than down any day any time any where – YOU NAME THE PLACE). The fire road is 2.5 miles. It’s the longest 2.5 miles of anyone’s life, or at least the lives of people who are not in spectacular shape and are very tired after summiting Old Rag.

This is the road that never ends... yes, it goes on and on my friends!

I made it through the first 1.5 miles without too much of a problem (except for a desperate need to pee that ended in a trail crouch - high five to all women!). We reached the trail head, were in the home stretch, had only a mile to go, and the damn fire road, it had the nerve to veer downhill. I don’t know what came over me. It was too much to place one foot in front of the other, baby step like, so I slowly picked up my pace until I was jogging.

It felt so much better to jog downhill than to walk. So I kept jogging.

And when the land flattened out, I kept jogging.

And when the trail turned into the paved road leading the way to the parking lot, I didn’t stop running.

A man walking his dog, white beard and all (does Santa have a mountain home in Lurray, Virginia?), laughed as I ran past. “Didn’t get enough of a workout on Old Rag?!”

I kept running, “I don’t know what’s wrong with me!”

Then I was at the parking lot, and then I was at the car, and then, I fell down beneath a tree and fell asleep for 100 hours.

Okay, that happened 3 hours later at 7pm at my house.

But I did take weird photos of myself, in my deathlike state, post 8 mile hike, post 1 mile run.



Zan caught up after walking like a sane person, looked at me lying pathetically immobile on the ground, shook his head and said, “You’re crazy, and I love you.”



 ****I’d like to note that no matter what Zan says, we did not find the true peak 10 minutes after our lunch, and there was certainly not a sign leading that way, and it was definitely not an even higher, better view-affording outlook with picnic spots. NO MATTER WHAT ZAN SAYS.