Climbing Mount Fuji

It’s been said, “He who climbs Mount Fuji once is a wise man; he who climbs it twice is a fool.”

I am a wise man — who longs to be a fool.

As I recall, on a clear day you could see Fuji-san from my barracks at Naval Air Facility-Atsugi. Among my many regrets as a member of VQ-1 was that in my self-involved, nose-in-a-book, face-in-a-scotch-glass worldview, I focused on molehills rather than mountains.

My friends, thankfully, saw the things differently.

I don’t remember how they conned me into the climb, or even how we got there. But I still carry a few clear, colorful moments of that day.

The Walking Stick

It had flat, smooth-cornered sides that were ideal for branding. At key points along the climb, a caretaker would remove a glowing iron from hand-stoked flames and brand a crude, but crisp, Japanese symbol onto the stick’s surface. With faint smoke and searing heat, the ritual was repeated along the uphill-journey, gradually transforming the walking stick into a poor man’s obelisk, memorializing the day's milestones.

The Show-Off

At the time I was overweight, didn’t exercise, and smoked two or three packs of non-filtered Pall Malls a day. Why smoke? Economics: Cigarettes were only 15 cents a pack in Da Nang, Vietnam, and just a skosh more in Japan.

So there I was, climbing Mount Fuji. Out of breath, panting, struggling with each step. “This is hard,” I thought. “This is too much like work.”

Then I caught a glimpse of a petite Japanese woman. She looked old, at least to my 23-year-old eyes. Thin. Wiry. Wearing a traditional, print-laden kimono and a big backpack, marching mechanically past me. Step-step. Chop-chop. Swish-swish — then she was gone. I was on a day-trip; she was on a mission. From that day to this, I can see her colorful ghost chastising me up the hill, toward the top of Fujiyama.

She embodied all that I came to respect and admire about the Japanese — a fine, honorable people with a solid work ethic. I remember, at our naval station, watching a Japanese repair-crew move intensely about and around an airplane, like ants on honey, and then watching an American crew work on a similar plane — talking, casually gesturing, between coffee and smoke breaks. I wondered to myself, “How did we win World War Two?”

Walking on The Crown

Sometimes you get what you want and ask, “Is that all there is?” The fever breaks and equilibrium returns, followed by emptiness. Not so with Fuji-san. The climb was memorable, but experiencing the top was dream-like. The crisp, mean air did not let us forget for a moment where we were — and that we were alive. It was invigorating. I can’t recall the view, but I can close my eyes, open my mind, and re-live the being-ness of being there. The icy, lung-needling deep breaths. Eyes darting about, exhilarated, exhausted. There are much bigger mountains that I will never climb. But I have walked on Fuji’s crown. That's good enough for me.

Joy Run

Getting me to the top of Mount Fuji required determination, but getting to the bottom took only gravity. We cascaded down the volcanic slopes, jump-running, big-stepping, hop-scotching — each giddy bounce moving us forward and out. All-the-while knowing that one slip could send any one of us face-first into volcanic rock and ash — scarred for life. But none of us fell. Instead we laughed and screamed, orchestrating a fool’s symphony — a mesmerizing mix of danger and delight.

Then, suddenly, it was over. We'd hit bottom.

* * *

It’s been nearly 50 years since I climbed Mount Fuji. Someday I'd like to go back and re-capture that fragile, sweet memory. I've neither notes nor photos from that first climb. Not even my branded walking-stick remains.

Nowadays I find myself too often describing life rather than living it. But that day in Japan, on that beautiful sky-kissed mountain, I lived — a full measure, “pressed down, shaken together and running over.”

That's why I yearn to do it again.