Damon Coulter wrestles Japan’s highest peak. And he’s brought a secret weapon along for the ride

My friends call it the Fuji radar - the ability I have to spot that most perfect of mountains faster even than those who have lived within its shadow all their lives.

And this time was no exception, a fleeting glimpse of a ridge, high behind some forested slopes, was all I needed to recognise it as the bus growled out of Tokyo’s suburbs.

But unlike the other times I’d got close to this majestic peak this was not going to be a transitory audience on the way to somewhere else. Fuji San (literally Mr. Fuji as the Japanese respectfully call it) was the actual destination today and as the bus sped on the views just got more impressive. Eventually I even had to wake up my companion Paul Deegan to share the mounting excitement.

Having just arrived in Japan, Paul seemed rather put out to have been pulled so suddenly from his slumber, and looked distractedly out the window before quickly dozing off again. He is the author of the BMC’s Mountain Travellers Handbook and has spent the last fifteen years climbing all over the world. I feared his disinterest was not due solely to the exhausting whiplash of jet travel; was it also possible, I wondered, to have seen just too many mountains? And having stood on top of Everest a few months before, was this 3,776 metres high lump of icon still interesting? However as the bus neared the foot of Mount Fuji, stopping to let tourists off at the incongruously inappropriate Fujikyu Highlands amusement park, he did perk up and gaze around, with some disbelief, at the roller coasters.

Twenty minutes later and about two hours after leaving Tokyo the bus pulled into Kawaguchi-ko where we re-thought our plans over lunch in a noodle restaurant. The sun was out, it was warm and still and as we inexpertly slurped our feast down we had a perfect view of Mount Fuji from the restaurant window. Paul was much more excited now he had some food in his stomach and keen to get going. The only problem is we weren’t actually sure which way that “going” would take. When we told the restaurant owner our plans, hoping to get some information, he simply shivered and shook his head in disbelief.

“Sugoi Samuii! (Very cold), “ he warned and shook his head some more. Paul shook his head too when I translated. “We’ll be fine!” Paul responded in loud, clear english, “it is not that cold!” I wanted to add that he was used to worse but knew he wouldn’t let me. When you have climbed Everest, apparently it’s not the done thing to make a fuss about it afterwards.

Climbing Fuji San on the other hand is one of the essential experiences of Japan and something they do make a big fuss about. A wise man, the saying goes, climbs Mount Fuji once but only a fool climbs it twice. The definition of a fool apparently can be broadened to mean even first-timers, like us, who try to climb it out of season or by an unusual route.

The usually route of ascent starts at the Fifth Station (Go Gome) halfway up but we didn’t want to do that; indeed the idea was anathema to a professional mountaineer like Paul. Yet getting any information on the path below it - the one we wanted to do - was proving difficult because for most Japanese the Fifth Station is where the mountain starts. After the noodles we were still none the wiser, so philosophising with Paul about what he’d recently done in Nepal (meaning he didn’t need to prove anything) plus the fact that we didn’t know the way anyway (and from Kawaguchi-ko it suddenly did look a long, long way) and his jet-lag and my lack of exercise; not to mention the approaching typhoon and…well many other things, we just decided to take the bus higher.

We were the only people on the bus and the Fifth Station, when it arrived, was much bigger than I had expected. Huge, exaggerated-roofed, European style chalets ringed a large car park hewn into the side of the mountain, selling souvenirs to hoards of tourists at equally exaggerated prices. It was definitely not the small grotty mountain hut I had imagined. But then Mount Fuji is the most visited national park in the World and each year during the climbing season well over 200,000 people start their climb to the summit from this place. Many more just come for the stunning views and even in October we could see that the shops and restaurants were still doing a roaring trade. Treating ourselves to an ice-cream, as a nod towards the conventions we were breaking by even attempting the mountain at this time of year, we set out for the peak along the path that starts where the car park ends.

After two years in Tokyo where I’d not had much chance to get out into the hills, or even just walk on grass for that matter, it felt good to be wearing a rucksack and find myself at altitude again and I couldn’t help almost skipping up the path. Paul, in his stride and element at last, paced himself behind me, surprisingly slowly I thought for someone who did this for a living. But as I caught my breath a few minutes later he came cruising by barely breaking a sweat, and continued up without a pause. I fell into step behind him; it was clear he knew what he was doing. A few daring tourists shuffled along with us passing the numerous signs telling them how dangerous and difficult the mountain was, and unsurprisingly in no time at all we were alone. After about two kilometres and just above the last of the trees a big sign on the right told us where the climbing route proper began and we stepped up onto the slope and started zigzagging up it.

The zigzags are famously tedious yet because we were the only people climbing up it was possible to even enjoy the serrated swathe they cut up the slope ahead. Fuji San, face-to-face, is not at all the mountain you expect it to be; on its flanks it has none of the grace associated with that famous silhouette and is basically a big pile of dust. Yet strangely I’ve never seen a more colourful mountain, pastel shades of brown, yellow and red shimmered along our route.

But the path can also be unbearably ugly in places - reinforced with cages of stones, concrete and metal walls, and way-marked by chain hand-rails and signs. So many signs - our earlier fears of getting lost now seemed rather foolish. At almost every turn a notice helpfully informed us we were on the “ascending route” or told us how far it was to the next station (section of the climb). Regular signs also warned us: “Don’t throw a rock”, by which I understood that two or three was probably permitted, while still others asked us to take our litter home. Litter was one of the main reasons UNESCO denied Mount Fuji World Heritage status in 1994, a refusal that still embarrasses the Japanese but aside from the sometimes industrial look of the path and the plethora of refuges at the different stations dotting the way to the summit, I have to be honest and say Fuji San was a lot cleaner than I had been led to believe.

Tucking into our curry and rice at the Eighth Station four hours later I think I understood where some of the mess had gone though. This was one of only two refuges still open this late in the year and the night-time wind was howling noisily through the eaves, chilling us deeply as it scoured the slopes of any left-over garbage. We were at an altitude of about 3,200 metres and though the incredibly heavy quilts we snuggled under in our bunks managed to keep us warm, when we had to leave them and go outside on a run to the toilet it felt scarily higher. The green plastic slippers provided by the refuge for the purpose did not fit well on our feet and even though the lights of Tokyo bejewelled the night below spectacularly, the shivering scramble over the loose dust and planks to the plastic Porta-cabin lashed precipitously to the side of the mountain created the very real fear that we would end up answering nature’s call a lot closer to them than we had planned.

Most people aim to climb to the summit of Mount Fuji in time for sunrise, an experience that is called Goraiko or holy light. We woke up the next morning at 5:30am and enjoyed the sunrise from the windows of the large, warm communal room where the night before Paul had watched Japanese television with ever increasing incomprehension. Offering us some instant noodles the lady who ran the kitchen asked us our plans for the day.

“Top,” I said expertly in English.
“Too late!” She looked alarmed. “Sunrise is better on top.”
“But it was beautiful here too, ” I said looking out the window at the morning light that had still not lost its orange, red, blue and purple hues.
“More beautiful, ” she said, pointing up the hill behind.
“But very cold, ” I retorted, “Sugoi Samuii!”
“But better, ” She persisted.
“Oh well,” said Paul slightly piqued by her insistence. “Once you’ve seen it from 8,850 metres I guess all else pales.”

This was the only time I’d heard him even alluded to anyone else about having climbed Mount Everest and was pleased to know that his modesty had limits like any normal being. The truth is that sunrise from the summit is what everyone does because everyone does it. Sunrise from the summit is indeed spectacular and possibly spiritual, as it is from the Eighth Station. In fact I would go so far as to say they are the same apart from the fact that it is considerably warmer and more comfortable watching it from the refuge.

More zigzags followed when we left the Eighth Station at 6am, tighter and steeper ones that gained height quickly and we were soon walking under the large Torii gate that had been far above us that morning. Countless coins had been hammered into the woodwork of this gate by previous climbers, and small round bells dotted the floor around it as blessings. I’d actually picked one up earlier thinking it was rubbish, but as we climbed on up to the Ninth Station I could see there were thousands scattered all over the place.

After the Ninth I knew it couldn’t be much further and convinced myself the buildings I could see on the skyline were the top. Paul refused to believe it and started telling me stories about false summits from the ridge of Everest that I listened to in awe as we plodded tiredly on. He was right of course, if it wasn’t the top I was going to feel even more exhausted. Already the altitude was telling and my legs were leaden and I felt a little light-headed but as we reached the buildings the path suddenly flattened-out and we saw we had arrived.

Two climbers were asleep on the porch of the refuge, enjoying the morning sun. We called out “Ohayo Gozaimasu! (Good morning!)” as we walked passed but they didn’t stir. There were more buildings in the distance and we could even see some other climbers wandering among them. In fact the summit of Fuji San resembled a small village built in a quarry.

“Can you imagine,” laughed Paul as we set out to walk around the crater rim. “What people would say if you did this on Snowdon?” I walked behind him, crunching over millions more discarded bells and coins, feeling a little unsure if that meant Fuji is not so bad or Snowdon is equally desecrated; wondering where the joke lay.

Traversing the summit was perhaps the most difficult part of the climb; we actually had to use our hands on occasion to go over the rough ripples of destruction that circle the 700 metres wide crater. My wife had warned me to look out for bodies at the bottom of it as many people apparently climb all the way up here to commit suicide by throwing themselves in. I didn’t understand how anyone could arrive here though and not feel more alive than ever because it was beautiful. A different kind of beauty, to be true, to the serenity of the peak as seen from below; up here it was easy to see the violence in the volcano: shattered and scarred, scorched and ravaged the top of Mount Fuji looks bruised as if the lava had only recently cooled and the fires just gone out.

Fuji San benign symmetry is easily Japan’s favourite backdrop though; there is no mountain prettier, more aesthetic and more peaceful. It last erupted in 1707, a blast that went on for sixteen days, ejected 700 million cubic litres of magma and a threw a ten kilometre wide cloud of ash into the sky that blocked out the sun and left the local rice field barren for a hundred years,. Yet it is inconceivable to most Japanese that this mountain may one day erupt again. There have been rumbles in that direction of late however, minor wobbles and quakes (222 in November 2000 alone) that on other mountains in other parts of Japan have been the prelude to big eruptions. Walking around the summit that day, past the post office, the weather station where the highest point can be found and which had, only the day before, closed after seventy-two years of continuous occupation; past the countless refuges, shops and other detritus of tourism, it was easy to see that sullied as it may be now, in the end, all this was very temporary; one big bang and this quintessential icon could easily reclaim its dignity. Maybe just maybe it will do just that soon. Though hopefully not while we were up here.

It took about an hour to go round the crater and the views out to the Japanese Alps and beyond were unbelievable. We’d been unusually lucky with the weather - most people spend their time on this mountain surrounded by clouds - but as we descended to the Fifth Station again the approaching typhoon was already boiling up and hiding the peak from us. We caught the bus back to Tokyo from the Fifth Station and though I spent the whole journey glued to the windows I couldn’t recognise anything that was Fuji San this time. Not that that bothered Paul of course - he was already asleep.

Damon Coulter is a BMC Member living in Tokyo. He admits to officially now being a fool, since he has now climbed Fuji twice. The second time was in season, and he queued up with thousands of others to see the sunrise. That is another story however.

Fuji Facts

Getting there
A flight to Tokyo would be handy. From there direct buses run from the city centre to the Fifth Station during the climbing season and to Kawaguchi-ko out of season.

When to climb
The climbing season (1st July - 27th of August) is very crowded. For a more peaceful experience go just before or after this, although the weather can be worse especially when the typhoons hit in September and October. Most refuges are only open during the climbing season but the Fuji San Hotel (+81 0555 220237) at the Eighth Station stays open the longest (until the middle of October). It is possible to climb the mountain in one push from the Fifth Station to save money (seven hours) but splitting it at the Eighth is more enjoyable.

Hazards
It’s not a difficult climb but it is high. Cold temperatures, bad weather, snow and strong winds may all be encountered so pack appropriate mountaineering clothing. Be aware of the effects of altitude and drink lots of water to aid acclimatisation.

Links
www.japan-guide.com
General information including bus times.

www.city.fujiyoshida.yamanashi.jp
A lot more information on the area around the mountain and climbing Mount Fuji, including refuge telephone numbers and bunk space. It also has a description of the various routes to the summit.

www.globalcompassion.com/climbing-fuji.htm
An interesting account of an ascent during the climbing season.

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