Climbing Mt. Fuji During A Typhoon
When I left Bangkok for Tokyo, I was so preoccupied with leaving the dank humidity behind, I didn’t realize it was typhoon season in Japan. Ordinarily I’d do a bit of research before switching continents or countries but I only skimmed through internet pages in impatient excitement. Reading that the rain season is over, I smiled, and remained ignorant of the typhoon season that swiftly follows.
Fast-forward to my volunteer work-trade in Tokyo where I’d been bustling around as a hostel housekeeper. I hated it and needed to get out of the gridlock of big city life. Tokyo was missing the grittiness I loved in a large metropolis so after three weeks of wandering well-planned subways and litter-free, smoke-free and homeless people-free sidewalks, I planned my next day off to summit Mt. Fuji. Acquiring a ten dollar pair of hiking boots from a thrift store, granola bars and trail mix, I was ready.
But the weather wasn’t.
Looking out the hostel window, my coworkers insisted I was insane for continuing on my journey during a typhoon. But it was the last available day to climb, with winter approaching on the high mountaintop, so I geared up and packed all my food. Chucking back an anti-inflammatory before I headed out the door (the high altitude ain’t forgiving), I rushed into the storm.
Sideways and diagonally the incessant rain drilled against my body. Rebellious winds taunting my spirit by ripping the plastic off my umbrella’s spine. I threw the lifeless protection in a ditch and sprinted for the subway. By the time I was on the bus, darkness descended and traffic stalled my momentum to give brief pause for doubts. Sharing my fears of hiking Japan’s towering emblem with a South African traveler, we glanced out of bus windows that were crying from rain, beads of moisture rolling down their bodies in mass succession. Though Mt.Fuji can be summited during the day, it’s a rite of passage among foreigners and locals to hike during the night, in time for the sunrise at the top. Of course the most logical solution would’ve been to stay in an overnight hut before the last station, or to avoid going altogether, but I was on the last leg of my money and convinced myself I could do it. My new friend did too.
We arrived at Kawaguchiko 5th Station, the trailhead for our journey up. At the base the sky was glowing in stages from loud claps of thunder, a savage rain drenching us within minutes of exiting the bus. We smiled nervously at each other and went to an open store to buy cheap rain outfits. My anxiety starting doing headstands in my gut so I took 30mins to acclimatize in a waiting room, never seeing my nameless friend again.
Finally mustering up the courage I made way for the sign-in sheet at the base, turned my headlamp on and let the black night become my friend. I quickly learned I should never, ever underestimate the importance of proper gear. The rain suit worked well as a shield but it’s lack of breathability suffocated moisture inside and I began sweating harder and faster than the pouring rain.
Eventually I grasped the same lesson I’d come to learn in many times while traveling: accept and surrender. Swinging off the sticky rain pants, I tied them to my bag and braved the blind path ahead, embracing the wetness. This is a lot easier to do when you know you’ll be in warm clothes or under shelter in ten minutes, a half hour or even an hour. But wandering the first switchbacks with the thought of aggressive rain soaking me for 7+ hours made my skin prune quicker.
A couple in front of me had the right idea. I knew altitude sickness was a real issue on this mountain, people having to be carried down just a few metres from the top, blood dripping from their noses. So I watched the teenagers walk exceedingly slow: one foot down, next in front, one foot down, next in front. Mimicking this glacier speed up an ancient volcano gave me enough time to forget about the rain, to catch my breath and munch on snacks, and to enjoy the world lighting up beneath my feet, homes like stars in the abyss below. A meditative march to worship the coming sun.
I smiled when others passed me because when I’d catch up to them resting at the next station, their faces were flushed and their limp legs hung desperately to a hope that they’d make it through the night. At times the wind careened off the slopes and tempted disaster, rocks stumbling beneath my feet, so my fear of heights made an unwelcome comeback. I’d almost forgotten about the typhoon. But when I reached the final stations I realized I was no longer under the clouds, I had passed the storm. Exuberant, I ran with adrenaline hand in hand, skipping people along the way.
Closer to the top, the trek becomes less strenuous because long queues form from overnight hikers being joined by people leaving from their alpine huts. Determined to keep warm by keeping active, I took risky shortcuts beyond the suggested path until I finally went proudly through the gate at the top. It was swarmed! Families, children, photographers and more set up picnics or blankets for the sublime show.
I spent all night climbing Mt. Fuji alone, and most often guided only by a full moon after hours of cold pouring rain. Silent for twelve hours, each step measured to avoid death or altitude sickness. So when I reached the top, I cried in awe as a man nearby played the flute and the whole mountain erupted in celebration for this rising sun; never a sunrise so worthy of complete exhaustion.
The route down was dry but sandy and I encountered individuals who never made it to the top, addressing their sudden flu-like symptoms. I could only nod and smile as I felt my strength leave me with each footprint I stamped on the ten thousand year old rock. Weariness I wore like a badge to honour my perseverance (and possible stupidity) of hiking that beast during a typhoon. At least I wasn’t the only one.
