Mt. Fuji Does Not Exist, Fujiyoshida, Japan (Feb 2006)

I am not leaving Japan without seeing Mt. Fuji.

As my plane traced its trajectory from Chicago to Osaka, the pilot’s disembodied voice crackled over the speakers, “And if you look out the window to your right, you will see Fuji-san poking out from the clouds.” I’m on the left side of the plane, but I know I have 9 days ahead of me and at least one of those is fully devoted to Seeing Mt. Fuji so I don’t worry about it too much.

On the train from Kyoto to Tokyo a few days later, we are peering out the windows to the left, knowing from our guidebooks that Mt. Fuji should be visible from this particular track. We can see the mountain range, but the peak of Fuji-san is shrouded in mist and cloud, just that section. That’s fine, my Fuji day is coming soon.

And now, in Tokyo, the manager of our ryokan is very politely trying to dissuade us from our day trip. He suggests Nikko instead, a temple complex just outside of Tokyo. I am firm in my refusal, I will not be swayed from my mission despite his gentle warning that the weather is not good and it may be snowing, we may not be able to see anything. “I am not leaving Japan with seeing Mt. Fuji!” I declare with all of my touristy righteousness. “I did not travel 5000 miles to not see the mountain, we are going, I don’t care if it’s snowing I am going to Mt. Fuji.”

I’m traveling with two friends, but we’re not particularly friendly anymore at this point; relations are strained to say the least. Nonetheless they are following biddably, this has in fact been part of the problem as they blindly trust my notes and research. On the one hand, this means they don’t know when I screw up and get on the wrong train or get lost, they think I’m infallible. On the other hand, this means they can’t get us onto the right train or un-lost if I screw up, and I have slowly come to feel that I am a tour guide not a friend.

This tour guide has a dislike of buses, so I didn’t even tell them that there’s a direct bus from the Shinjuku station to the 5^th station on Mt. Fuji that is a little less expensive and an hour less travel time than the torturous train route I’ve mapped out. Before even leaving Tokyo we are already having trouble as friendly passerby try to help us decipher what train we need from the Shinjuku station, completely ignoring the itinerary that I have laboriously routed from the online train schedules. The bible of train schedules comes out, thick like a phone book and with the same thin paper, tiny print and smeared ink, except it’s all in kanji characters. This becomes a group conference, everyone wants to help the lost gaijin, and maybe too everyone wants to be the one who can.

We are firmly directed to a different platform than my itinerary indicated, told that this is really where we want to be. We follow instructions but once we get there and our smiling guide leaves us, I backtrack. This isn’t right and I know it’s not, but I don’t know what is. We go back to the man with the train bible, he’s surprised to see us again but amiably turns to help us. Again. We go over the plan again, we are going to Otsuki and then on to Fujiyoshida. “Otsuki!” He exclaims. “Not Atsikki?” or something like that. Turns out the transcription from kanji to roman characters is a little flexible, and we had indeed narrowly avoided going in exactly the wrong direction.

Now we’re on the right track, but it’s taken us almost an hour and we’re still in Tokyo. The first train is familiar, it’s a Shinkansen like the ones we’ve been on so far, the sleek bullet trains that are one of the modern icons of Japan. First transfer, and this train is a little grubbier and a lot slower, it’s more like a subway train than a commuter train, with dangling hoops for those who are standing rather than a seat assigned for each rider.

Next transfer, and we’re getting close. The air is thick and opaque out the window, a storm front moving in. We board the Fuji Express, and there’s nothing express about it; the ride is about 45 minutes and really we probably could have walked faster. I am castigating myself internally, but the other two haven’t caught on yet that I’ve made this way more difficult than it had to be. It’s easier to hide it, too, because we’re not really speaking to each other; I’m angry at them and they know it, and also know how dependent they are on me right now since they have no idea where they’re going and I do.

Staring out the window of this train that’s a joke really, not even a commuter train, it’s like a train in Dollywood or the monorail in Disney World. If we’d taken the bus from Shinjuku we would’ve been there an hour ago. I’m still keeping silent on that one.

Arrival at last, we pile out at the Fujiyoshida station. It’s cold here, about 20 degrees colder than in Tokyo. I turn around in a circle trying to orient myself, figure out which vector to travel down next, and finally see the tourist information booth. My friends are huddled together a few feet away from me, passively waiting for me to tell them where we’re going next. Up at the plexiglass window with a hole cut in it, I smile and ask the lady if she speaks English, knowing that she will. She confirms this, and my next question is,

“Where is the mountain?”

She points directly behind me. I turn, and see just that solid field of opaque air. “It’s snowing,” she explains.

I am not leaving Japan without seeing Mt. Fuji.

She helpfully hands me a sketched tourist map of the town, indicating that since we’re here we can at least go check out the shrine. We’re nearly shrined out from Kyoto, but she’s right about one thing—we’re here. And it’s in the same direction as the mountain, so off we go to the shrine.

Snowflakes are starting to swirl around us, we’re ill-garbed for this weather and shivering. We’re the only people on the sidewalk, or in the street; the town, we have learned, pretty much shutters up from October to April, it’s role as jumping off point for Fuji a moot point in the off season. Nobody comes here in the winter, nobody except this trio of particularly stubborn American tourists. No, that’s not true; it’s not three of us that are stubborn, it’s just me. I am not leaving without seeing Mt. Fuji.

All the way through town, and we find the shrine. The snow isn’t really coming down yet, it’s just thinking about it, a few flirty flakes that dissolve before they hit the ground. This temple is where the Fuji Fire Ceremony will start in the spring, and it’s all but abandoned now, just one young woman staffing the souvenir booth who seems as surprised to see us as everyone else has been, and limply gestures that we are free to look around as much as we like. It’s best to give crazy people their way as long as it doesn’t harm anyone.

Through the temple grounds and one of those iconic orange gates, that’s the trailhead. There are nine stations on the way to the summit, and I know we won’t get there for a few reasons, the snow but also the altitude, it’s too high for me and I won’t be able to breathe. I start up the trailhead anyway, I can’t see the mountain but at least I can stand on it. Up a slowly curving path, a rather mild ascent as such things go. I am pushing through this white air that wants to be snow but isn’t quite yet there. Trudging, and we pass a small shrine to the left, maybe that’s the first station? Or maybe the second, maybe the temple was the first, we didn’t ask and it doesn’t seem to matter that much. Another ten minutes and the ascent is steeper, and now I’m gasping for air, we’re not anywhere near the top yet but we’ve gone high enough that the altitude is starting to slow me down.

I stop and sit on a fence post. Debi and Chris join me, worried expressions creasing their faces, they knew this was going to happen, I warned them about it. They gently suggest that we turn back. Panting, my face flushed, I look up the path into that wall of snow, I can see the ground rising, going up to that peak I can’t see. They’re right, it’s time to turn back, we need to start our slow way back to Tokyo soon anyway. I stand up, swaying a little bit, and face away from that ascent, backtracking down past the shrine, up the deserted street, and back to the station to wait for that slow train that will take us to another slow train that will take us to another faster train that will take us to a subway train that will take us to another subway train that will take us back to our hotel.

When we leave Osaka, the pilot says, “And if you look out the window to your left, you’ll see Fuji-san coming out from behind the clouds.”

My seat is on the right.