At 3776 meters (12,390 feet) high -- over three times the height of the tallest peak in Virginia's Shenandoah National Park -- Mt. Fuji is by far the highest mountain and volcano in Japan.  And so the adventure begins...

It was early June and I had hoped not to climb Fuji alone, but my Japan hiking friends were not available until early July -- the middle of Japan's rainy season.  I would be leaving Japan in the beginning of August, so time was short and if I waited, I might not have been able to find another weekend with decent weather.

Before climbing Fuji I wanted to get a great view of it so I could appreciate its beauty from afar as well as get my adrenaline flowing -- to make myself excited and a bit scared about attempting such a high peak.  I arrived near Fuji late Friday night, and since it was a clear sky I chose to sleep under the stars rather than setting up my tent.  (I couldn't find the campground but a grassy park did the job; it was quite nice having the flowing sound of mountain river lull me to sleep.)  On Saturday morning at 4:30am (sunrise -- there's no Daylight Savings Time in Japan), since it was supposed to cloud up in the afternoon, I began my ascent of Fuji's next-door-neighbor Mitsutogeyama (Mt. M for short) whose peak my trusty Lonely Planet "Hiking in Japan" book said offered great view of Fuji and the surrounding area.  At 7:30am I arrived at Mt. M's 1785-meter (5855-foot) peak (less than half of Fuji's height) and had spectacular views of Fuji both while ascending and at the top.  Pretty pink and purple flowers along the trail were quite nice, too.  Fuji is enormous -- not only tall, but shaped like a perfect volcanic cone and incredibly wide -- in fact, I think the base is at least 30 miles (48 km) in diameter!  As I gazed at the snow-capped peak, I contemplated how different things would soon be, for at the time I was sweating wearing shorts and a T-shirt. 

I had a few more views of Fuji during my descent of Mt. M, and each time clouds which originally were at Fuji's base ascended toward its peak.  Perhaps the heat of the sun makes the water vapor in the clouds less dense / lighter, and hence the clouds rise?  Anyway, I got to the base of Mt. M, which was also the base of Fuji, at about 11am, and took a bus to the start of a Fuji hiking trail at elevation 2000 meters (6560 feet). 

The popular Fuji thing to do in Japan is to climb it in the middle of the night and arrive at the peak in time to see the sunrise (Japan is, after all, the "land of the rising sun.")  The popular time to go is in July and August, when the snow is gone and huts along the trail are open for rest and refreshments.  But this also means climbing with hundreds of others, not being able to set one's own climbing pace due to the crowds, and having no peace while watching the sunrise.  And it means a boring climb because you can't see anything in the middle of the night.  So I wanted to beat the crowds, climb during the day, watch the sunset, camp out at the peak, and wake up to watch the sunrise.  That was the plan, anyway. 

By the time I began my ascent at 2pm, the clouds had rolled in, it was about 60 degrees Fahrenheit (16 Celsius) and humid enough to see the vapor in my breath.  For the remainder of my stay in the area, clouds were forecast with a 20% chance of rain.  I kept my fingers crossed that the rain would stay away, and that the clouds would drop below the peak in the cool of the night so that I could see the sun rise.

And so I began my ascent.  Holy cow it was hard work.  For the first 500 meters (1640 feet) or so of elevation, after hiking just two minutes I would have to rest for 30 seconds or so.  Why?!!  I had never had such a problem before.  Was it because the hike was all uphill with no relief, whereas I was used to occasional downhill sections when ascending mountains in Virginia?  Was it because I had already hiked for six hours that morning (with no such problem) and despite the 3-hour break, my body was tired?  Was it because of the altitude?  Japanese people young and old alike hike this mountain, though rarely with a relatively heavy tent- and sleeping bag-laden backpack.  Camping out on Fuji is, um, uhh, actually "illegal;" if people want to sleep on the mountain they do so in the huts -- which were all closed until the following month. 

As I gained in altitude my rate of ascent slowed.  By the time I reached 3250 meters (10,665 feet) and in fact well before then, I had slowed to having to rest for a half to a whole minute after hiking for just one minute, or sometimes even just thirty seconds.  What was wrong with me?  It was about 6:00pm, and it had taken me four hours to get to a point which typically takes only three.  I found some flat ground near one of the (closed) mountain huts, and pitched my tent.  I was above the clouds (perhaps the afternoon cooling-off made the clouds begin their descent?) and so was pleased to watch the sunset (though partially blocked by the mountain itself) which I had hoped to see from the top.

At 8pm I lay down to sleep.  I didn't feel too badly for breaking the no-camping law, for just 100 meters below near a different hut was a Japanese couple in their own tent.  The wind started to pick up a bit, perhaps it was blowing at 15 mph (24 kph).  I moved my backpack to the side of the tent which the wind was pushing up and down, closed my eyes and tried to fall asleep.  Despite being tired from having hiked for 10 hours that day, after laying still for a long, long time, I could not fall asleep.  Then I noticed my heart was beating at perhaps one third faster than its normal rate at rest.  Was the oxygen level really different enough to make that happen?  A few days later I learned that at that that altitude, compared to sea level the air was 36% thinner -- so with each breath, I was taking in only 64% as much oxygen.  No wonder I found it hard to breathe through the small passages of my nose and instead had to open my mouth, and no wonder my heart was working harder to get sufficient oxygen to my tired muscles and organs. 

After sleeping only half an hour here, half an hour there, at 1:30am I awoke to my alarm with a small headache, and with my nose and mouth painfully dry.  Despite it being significantly colder out (perhaps 40 degrees Fahrenheit / 4 degrees Celsius), I could not see my breath even though I could see it down at the start of the hike.  Later I read that high-altitude mountain air is very dry, making it easier to become dehydrated because you lose water more quickly than you realize.  To save on weight I didn't bring much extra water, especially since I could eat snow as a back-up.

Little did I know at the time that I was experiencing a degree of "acute mountain sickness," a form of altitude sickness.  I later read that 70% of visitors above 2500 meters (8000 feet) get headaches, and about 30% have both fatigue and difficulty sleeping.  There are other less common symptoms as well, but these were the ones I had.  It all has to do with the amount of oxygen your lungs are able to take from the thin air and put into your blood; some people are better than others and it's not possible to predict.  I had done myself the favor of camping out at high altitude, which meant more time for my muscles and organs to starve of oxygen than the typical Fuji hiker who climbs to the peak in the middle of the night without a long pause for high-altitude sleeping.

I emerged from my tent at 2am to begin the final two-hour ascent to the peak.  The wind had picked up to about 25 mph (40 kph); to make sure my tent would not blow away I put big rocks inside its four corners.  Despite the fact that all I was carrying this time was a winter jacket and a few safety items, I still could only climb short distances before having to rest.  It started out cloudy, but before long the clouds were gone and I had a beautiful view of the stars above and the city lights far below.  If I made it to the top, it looked like I was going to have a perfect view of the sunrise.

When the sky started to brighten up at 3:30am, the trail became treacherously slippery for it was steep and covered with snow.  So rather than take the zig-zagging trail I climbed straight up the rocks which for some reason didn't have any snow on them.  Even though I'd be off-trail I figured the top is the top and I'd find the trail again later.  The wind was getting stronger and the temperature had dropped below freezing -- my hitherto black jacket and pants were white with frost.  At long last, I reached the peak at 4am, at a spot where a few buildings stood. 

I was surprised to see two tents wedged in between the buildings, and more surprised that I did not see a single person up there the whole time I stayed at the peak.  I checked my compass to see which way was East, and headed for the spot on the circular volcanic crater rim which faced due east.  As soon as I emerged from the protection of the buildings, SLAM -- I was hit with approx. 50 mph (80 kph) winds, no exaggeration.  I saw a natural rock formation ahead which looked to be a good sunrise-viewing location and a natural wind shelter, so I leaned my body forward 20 degrees and slowly pushed my way into the wind.  While trudging through the wind, I couldn't believe my eyes but I saw a deer prance by on the side of the mountain near the peak.  The nearest food was around 1500 meters (5000 feet) below.  What could the deer possibly have been doing up at this altitude where food was far away and where the atmospheric pressure was 60% that of sea level, such that each breath contained 40% less oxygen?  A friend of mine later said she thinks it was a hallucination.  I definitely don't think so, but then how can I know for sure?

I reached the rock formation, found a perfect natural shelter, and waited for the sun to make its appearance.  After about a half hour of waiting in the cold, thin air, the sun rose, unfortunately rather anticlimactically.  I've noticed something similar about sunsets before:  each one differs depending on the cloud formations present.  There were almost no clouds in the sky, and so no amazing color show -- mainly just a bright red ball rising from the horizon.  It didn't matter though; I did it!

Despite there being almost no clouds, there was not a clear view of the mountains, cities and lake far below -- the haze was too thick.  At 5am I trudged back into the wind, took a quick but impressive glimpse into the 240-meter- (790-foot-) deep crater and began my descent.  I wanted to hike the one-hour circuit of the crater rim but the wind was too dangerous and it was way too cold (with the wind-chill factor, I'm sure that the effective temperature was below zero Fahrenheit (minus 18 Celsius).   

It had taken two hours to get from my tent up to the peak, but it took only about a half hour to return.  How so?  A guy I saw descending the day before had skis tied to his backpack.  As for me, using my left foot as a ski and my hands and right foot as brakes, I crouched and zoomed down a snow slope all the way to my tent.  What a blast!!!  Even though the wind was just as strong, because I was crouched down low it wasn't a problem.  Interestingly, I discovered that my tent was crouched down low, too:  the force of the wind was violently bending the poles and slamming the tent back and forth, up and down to a nearly flattened position.  Thank goodness I had put the rocks in there, for otherwise my tent, backpack, and gear inside would have been about 15 miles away somewhere near the base of the mountain.  Now I know one reason why camping is not allowed.

It took me about an hour to remove the stakes and rocks and pack up the tent (it usually takes only 10 minutes).  Somehow I miraculously was able to pack up the tent without pieces of it flying off into the distance, and somehow the aluminum poles miraculously did not snap and the tent is still useable.  At about 7am I was all packed up and ready to descend; I put my backpack on and quickly realized that descending down the zig-zagging trail would be nearly impossible, for the wind kept slamming my backpack and spinning me around, very nearly blowing me down the rocky slope.  I found a little protected crevice to wait out the wind (hopefully it would calm down), and then noticed what a spectacular view there was.  By then the wind had blown out the haze, and I had crystal-clear view of the lake and cities below.  Furthermore, I could really appreciate how mountainous Japan is:  into the distance I counted seven rows of mountain ranges.  I wished it had been as clear when I was at the peak, but then perhaps it's best that it wasn't -- for I may have decided to circuit the crater rim to see from the other sides, and in the process greatly risked being blown off into the distance never to be seen again.

After an hour of waiting (and enjoying the view) I was getting cold, and the wind was showing no sign of relaxation.  A hiker who I had seen heading up toward the peak when I was "skiing" down came back down to my tent; she said that because of the wind it was way too dangerous to make it to the peak, and so she was on her way back down.  I quickly opted for safety in numbers and began my descent with her.

She was fortunate to be wearing glasses; I had none.  The winds continuously picked up small bits of volcanic rock and pelted my face, eyes, and mouth (I had to keep my mouth open to take in sufficient air).  One time when I was taking a break, I spat straight down to get rid of the rocks in my mouth, and a gust of wind suddenly threw the falling spit straight back up into my face!  As I descended, I was getting blown all over the place and very nearly started tumbling down the mountain several times.  Fortunately, I soon arrived at an area with steel chains on the side of the trail, and was thrilled to find that they continued nearly all the way to the bottom.  Step by step, I held on tightly to the chains and several times, having been twisted by the wind, I lost my footing and tugged the chain to break my fall.  Thank you Japan for having installed the chains which functioned as my savior!

When I neared the bottom, I came across a group of four hikers who had slept in a big tent just 150 meters above mine.  Somehow they guessed that I had made it to the peak, for they asked me if I had (later when I saw myself in a mirror I realized why:  most people looked clean but my face was a nasty splotchy black from being pelted with volcanic dust).  They said the winds were so strong that they had called off their final ascent to the summit.

Another person who asked me if I had made it to the peak told me how lucky I was.  He had been living in the area for many years, and he said that such cloudless, crystal-clear views of Mt. Fuji and the surrounding area occurred only two days per YEAR!  Cool!  I can't wait to see my photos.

I tried cleaning up in a bathroom at the base of the mountain, but nothing short of a shower and a change of clothing would make me look decent.  I was dirty, I hadn't shaved in 2.5 days, and I smelled.  I felt and looked like that Peanuts character (what's his name -- Pigpen?).  People looked at me funny on the train during my 3.5 hour trip back home; if only they knew where I'd been!

When I got home I took a long, long shower and used Q-tips to clean volcanic dust out of my inner ears.  I quickly unpacked and noticed that one of my water bottles was completely caved in / crushed from the difference in air pressure between sea level and near the Fuji's peak where I had last opened it.  I slept for 10 hours that night and was still exhausted the next morning.  It wasn't until after lunch, about 27 hours after leaving Fuji, that I felt better.  Perhaps it took that long for the oxygen levels in my muscles and organs to return to normal?  I dunno.  I have a lot of questions that will go unanswered from this exhausting but awesome trip.  A common saying goes:  "it is wise to climb Mt. Fuji once, but only a fool does it twice."  I act like a fool a lot, but not this time!

P.S. -- A website which allows you to calculate how thin the air is at various elevations is:  www-personal.usyd.edu.au/~gerhard/pressure.html   Enjoy!

Cambodia ~ Thailand ~ Malaysia ~ Singapore ~ China ~ Mt. Fuji ~ Japan