In the Land of the Rising Sun

The sun begins to peek over the horizon. I am surrounded by nearly a thousand people, but the only noise to be heard is the click of camera shutters. The sliver coming up to greet us is redder than I ever thought a sun could be. It rises so quickly I can actually see its progress up into the clouds.

After a few moments the crowd breaks and almost on cue, the day begins with full vigor. Vendors are hawking hot drinks and souvenirs. An elderly Japanese couple sneak quick breaths from their oxygen canisters. Danish backpackers crack open well-earned beers. A kind Australian man takes my picture for me.

But how did I get here?

I could talk about the endless planning and dreaming about this trip. I could talk about the sublime congruence of events that brought me to Japan that particular summer. I could talk about my parents instilling a love of adventure in me from an early age. I could talk about how I saved and scrimped and finagled frequent flyer miles.

But it really isn’t that complicated. I’m here because I climbed a mountain. However I don’t think mountain describes it properly. When I think mountain I picture forests, trees, and Julie Andrews singing to me. This was a giant pile of rock.

For eight grueling hours I climbed up rocks. There came a certain point where there was nothing else to think about other than where to place my next step. I couldn’t think of the burn in my legs. I couldn’t think of the thinning air and the difficulty of my breath. I couldn’t think about the quickly plummeting temperature. I just moved forward.

As the first hint of light spread and I could see the top, I came to the most frustrating traffic jam of my life. At the coldest point of the night, I was stuck waiting in a line snaking up the last 300 meters of trail. How did I convince myself this climb was a good idea? Why was little old Midwestern me stumbling up an extinct volcano?

Then the sun appeared, and it was beautiful. The sense of community among people from all over the globe was overwhelming. As I waited in line to pay way too much to use the hole in the ground toilet, I looked up, and there on the rafter was a bumper sticker from Madison, Wisconsin. Even on a remote mountain top in a faraway land, there was a reminder of home.

I started my trip down Mount Fuji with a smile on my face. That smile may have begun to fade as I realized the trip down would be just as brutal as the climb up, but that is a story for another day.