Ashita, Okusan to Fuji-san ni noborimashita

So… we did it. First, let me tell you this… We had heard different stories from different people about how it was to climb. Two of our friends had two opposite experiences. One of them climbed the Fujinomiya trail on the south west side of the mountain… and hated it. She said it was so crowded that you could only take a step and wait. Take another couple steps and wait. It took her nine hours. (supposed to take 4hrs 20 min) And the sun rose on the other side of the mountain before she could get to the top. That means she never had a chance to see the sunrise, which is the whole point of hiking it at night. It was so frustrating that she almost told us not to go. Another friend took the Kawaguchiko (yoshida) trail. This is the most popular trail because it is short, well established with vendors etc, and it is most accessible from Tokyo. Anyway, he loved it. He said it was packed but he tried not to be annoyed by it. He saw the sunrise and loved every minute of it. He said it took him 6 or 7 hours. (supposed to take 5hrs.) We had planned on taking that trail, but made a last-minute decision to climb Gotenba-guchi trail instead. What we read about Gotenba-guchi was that it was definitely the most difficult trail but that the decent was the fastest and most popular, because of the fore-mentioned suna-bashiri (sand slide) that allows you to run down without jarring your knees.

 Well, here is our experience of Gotenba-guchi. 

We left the house at about 5pm. (1 hour behind schedule)  I spent a good chunk of the three hour drive worrying that we wouldn’t get there in time because we read the parking lot only has 500 spaces and that it is likely you won’t get one unless you get there earlier in the day. (it is peak season after all). After a few mishaps with directions etc, we got to the trail at 8:45 pm or so. The parking lot was about 1/6 full, both meaning we had a place to park, and there would not be hordes of people lining the trail. Score 1. The moon was full and the sky was clear. Score 2. You could see the outline of the dark mountain against the star and moonlit sky. It was beautiful. Score 3…

Hajimemasu!

So far, this was turning out to be a very very good hike.  We excitedly got our packs together and all our hiking clothes on, used the Fuji-potties, and started on our way. I was wearing a sleeveless shirt and shorts because it was still so warm. After 5 minutes of hiking from the parking lot, you reach the official fifth station. (Go-gome)  Here, they had vending machines, toilets, a souvenir store, and a fire with hot irons that are used to burn the “Go-gome” characters into your newly acquired (for 1000 yen) Fuji-walking-stick. After getting our much-recommended walking sticks, the workers politely showed us the entry to the ascending route. We were on our way.

 We had read that you are supposed to pace yourself when hiking Fuji. It’s a long hike after all. And “Roku-gome” (Station 6) is 4 hours away. But we couldn’t resist. We started cooking up the hill, excitedly talking and watching our increasingly better view of the lightening storm. We didn’t use our headlamps because you could see very well with the moonlight, and it made viewing the lightening and the stars much easier. The lightening grew more and more sparse, but watching a lightening storm from above was still an amazing site to see… As we kept looking up at the stars and the full, glorious moon, I kept thinking of the Celestial City in the book Pilgrim’s Progress by John Bunyan. The word Celestial always made me think Heaven was gloriously starry, as if that was the God’s crowning achievement in Creation. But at that moment, it was a very strong feeling. Heaven was something like this. It was exhilarating.

The trail was sandy, like hiking on the beach. But the sand was actually pebble size volcanic rock. Not quite as light as Mount St. Helens pumice, but light none-the-less. Walking on this stuff was tiring, but we figured it would only be at the beginning of the trail. So we kept on going. After a couple hours of switchbacks, (some with loose fuji-gravel, and some with slightly packed fuji-gravel,) we were tired. Susan started feeling some of the effects of altitude sickness, so we took a few breaks here and there to allow her to acclimate a bit. After three hours, we were really looking forward to finding the sixth station and resting for a few inside a shack, and letting our lungs get used to the thinner air. Four hours came and went. No sixth station. I knew we had slowed down, but we were still pacing with people we started with. After not hitting it at 4 hours, 4.5 hours, it started to get discouraging. We slowed a bit more as the trail got steeper. We saw a shadow up the hill, a little darker than the outline of the mountain. We figured it must be the sixth station, but we couldn’t figure out why the lights weren’t on and why we couldn’t hear the generator. We hiked a few more switchbacks until we came up to it. With our headlamps turned on for a moment, we saw the structure was boarded up and covered in barbed wire. It looked as if it hadn’t been touched or used for anything in years, so this couldn’t be roku-gome. We were in real of a break, but since 6^th station was supposed to be 4 hours away from the trailhead, we thought we must be very close to the real 6^th station. We kept trucking up the hill, switchback after switchback. Another ½ hour up the trail we saw a sign that said 7^th station, 30 minutes. I just about screamed. I wanted to whack the sign with my fuji-stick. But instead we looked at each other, shook our heads, and let out an out-of-breath chuckle. The altitude was affecting us more and more, so we were slowing quite a bit. A lot of people passed us, including an old guy who seemed to be moving like a turtle up the slope. (Again, a little discouraging). I guess the altitude was doing more than we even thought.

Susan had a terrible headache and was getting dizzy after each switchback. I didn’t want to make this a rescue operation, so I made her stop frequently so we could (hopefully) acclimate and move on. We saw lights that seemed to just be a little way up the mountain, so we pressed on with the hope of a warm break. By this time, we both had put on a few more layers. Susan zipped on her pant legs, put on fleece and coat, and I put on another shirt and a fleece. We sat down on the rocky trail and I huddled my body around Susan because the wind was so violent, her head was pounding, and she was still very dizzy. We need to find the station so I could buy a can of oxygen. There was no one else on the trail anywhere near us.

The excitement I felt at the beginning was turning quickly to fear. I didn’t know how serious altitude sickness was, but I knew Susan was feeling it badly, even though she stubbornly refused to admit it. There was no one to ask how far the next station was, or if we could borrow some oxygen. (For the record, we made conscious decision not to buy any before starting because the literature we read in preparation implied that all of the stations were well stocked with supplies, including oxygen, should you need it). After trying in vain to warm up and rest, eating some dried mango and trail mix, we got up, stretched out, and started up this unending mountain.

The lights that we saw up the hill appeared and disappeared as we moved back and forth, following each switchback. It was hard to tell how far up it was, and it felt like a we had taken the practical joke of a trail that mean friends would tell you to take, knowing full-well that there was nothing but loose sand to contend with all the way up the damn mountain, and no stations, despite the signage. We reached another abandoned structure. Starting to feel defeated, but knowing that the way down was now no easier than the way up, we had no choice but to find the source of the light. It was getting colder and colder and the wind was getting stronger, so each time we took a short break, it grew more difficult to keep our tired muscles warm. As we passed another (no kidding) abandoned structure, I was about 20 meters ahead of Susan. I kept walking and as she was feeling the frustration that I had felt only moments before, I signaled to her to keep moving.I saw not only the light, but also the building of the “7.4” station only 100 meters (a few switchbacks) up. When we got there, we saw a shack with a light on, but it appeared to be the residence of the caretaker. Whatever shop was there was obviously closed for the night and there was no one to be seen. There were many benches in front of the long skinny shack. It was the first thing to sit on that we’d seen in 7 hours, so even though the disappointment of the shop being closed and being denied a warm shelter, we welcomed the sight. We took off our packs, laid out our thermal blankets on a wide bench and I had Susan lie down and try to get a rest. The wind was biting because the station was at the top of a ridge and the wind flew up one side, over the top, and down the other. I finally put on my pants because the cold was going to freeze my joints if I didn’t. I told Susan that we were going to wait there until sunrise. I think it was about 4 am. At this time, Susan was feeling every single symptom of altitude sickness (except vomiting): Headache, Lack of appetite, nausea, or vomiting, Fatigue or weakness, Dizziness or light-headedness, Insomnia, Pins and needles, Shortness of breath upon exertion, Persistent rapid pulse, Drowsiness, General malaise. (Apparently altitude sickness isn’t from a lack of oxygen, but a lack of CO2 in the air, which causes low blood pH. Strange…)

 So we made the best of the situation. We laid down, put the second thermal blanket on top of us, (as much as it would cover) and waited. After ½ hour or so, an old man came out of the hut and started moving things about. He pulled some red-hot coals from somewhere and put them in an open-top kiln and put it on a bench. I didn’t know if it was for us to warm up with or not, so I got up and went over to it.

The light was barely starting to show itself in the eastern sky. It was a faint blue color. With every minute it increased. After 20 minutes of killing time, I went back over to where Susan was and told her to pop her head out and take a peak. It was starting. The faint blue had turned to a faint pink. With every minute it turned more and more dramatic, each moment another hue. Each thin line of clouds added to the complexity. One cloud that was much nearer to us was moving north. It was long and thin, but had strange bursts coming out the top that looked like palm trees. The fact that it was moving and the others weren’t created a dazzling three-dimensional effect. Some people popped out of the hut and joined us in silence on the benches. I took the video camera and our digital still camera and started trying to capture the uncapturable. Pictures never do justice to nature. Oh well. I tried anyway. Susan sat up. (Something I should mention. No matter how bad she felt, she kept surprising me with how determined she was to enjoy the experience. The fact that she could still smile through the pain proved why I respect her so much. Massive headache, nausea, dizziness or not, she was going to experience this sunrise) It was a beautiful moment. 

We waited another ½ hour or so until the light had thoroughly taken over before we packed up. We were the first to start on the trail again. It was about 5:15am. She was feeling slightly better but I knew she was determined to make it to the top. We could see the 8^th station above and hiked pretty consistently towards it. By the time we got there though, the altitude started making me feel the symptoms a bit, and Susan had grown worse. We used those benches for another 45 minutes before picking up for the last leg. 

                                     When you are on a mountain, everything appears mockingly closer than reality. From the bottom we could see the top, and the lights from the seventh and eight stations.  They seemed way up there, but not unachievable. From the eighth station, we could see the top, and it looked far. Knowing it was farther than it looked hurt with a physical pain. I moaned to myself and thought about whether it was worth it. The fact that we had already climbed from 1400 meters to over 3000 meters barely even mattered. I seriously contemplated giving up. I think if Susan said it, I probably would have turned around. But the fact that she was feeling the worst that altitude sickness has to offer and she wasn’t even flinching, didn’t allow me to consider the thought of giving up.

 We trudged up the switchbacks, one after the other. Susan said it was discouraging that it didn’t look any closer after ½ hour. I told her to stop looking up. It occurred to me that we rarely say ‘don’t look up’ as a warning. It is always “don’t look down”.  Anyway, we finally did make it to the top. We passed through the torii gate and immediately looked for a place to sit down. 50 meters past the gate, we could see the crater. It was amazing. You could walk right up to the edge and look in. I don’t know how deep it is, but I would guess a couple hundred meters down to the bottom. You could look across and see tiny people standing on the other edge of it. Must be at least a kilometer across, maybe more.

We rested at the top for a while and looked around. We shared a bowl of noodles and bought $30 worth of water. (no joke) There is a post office at the top, not more than 100 meters from the crater. Who’d a thunk? Seems silly, but it’s been there a while and it is pretty popular to send things from it. Sorry if any of you reading this would have liked one. You aren’t getting one. (Don’t feel singled out, we didn’t send any… )

Before we started this journey, I had high hopes of making the 1-hour trip circumnavigating the crater. But once we were at the top, there was just no chance. (If we had spent the night in a hut on the way up, like many people who took our trail, we may have been more interested… but things as they were, we weren’t going anywhere but down, and even that seemed nearly impossible.)

After a couple hours of rest, and stocking up on supplies, we headed back to the Gotenba trail torii gate to begin our descend.  I noticed a sign in English, “Descent 3 hours time.”  I laughed outloud, but really I wanted to cry.  I couldn’t imagine that we’d be able to make it to the car in a mere 3 hours.  The view as we worked our way down was every bit as interesting as the scene on the way up.  The clouds were forming and moving quickly across the slope.  From the top, we could see a bit of the rocky switchbacks, but the rest of the mountain was engulfed in big puffy white clouds.  I kept thinking if I could only make it down to one of the pointy rocks out in the distance, then I could just step right onto the puffiness.  I wanted to go jump around in them, but that would obviously be a poor decision (maybe that would shorten the trip down J).  This first section of the descent was very rocky, mostly rocks the size of your fist and smaller on the trail itself, but larger ones for sure in between.  I found it very slippery, but I think I only slipped once, for the most part Stephen and I ran down this section, slowing only for other hikers.  We made it back to the two huts we’d stopped at on the way up, we grabbed a small bite from our packs and tried to catch our breath.  I was naïve about altitude sickness, so I wasn’t sure how safe it was to descend quickly… I still felt dizzy and I was having trouble seeing out of my left eye.  To be honest, I wasn’t sure if it was due to tiredness, the altitude, or just a dry contact. 

If we hadn’t been at the same huts, I would have easily mistaken our location.  The clouds were amazingly thick, and while the mist felt great on my skin, it was strange to walk and walk and only see twenty yards ahead.  After we passed through the second hut where we watched the sunrise (the first one we’d seen on our way up), we came upon an ash sand trail.  To be truthful, the sight of it made me cringe a bit.  I had become accustomed to putting my foot down and move the other in front without my back foot sinking deep into the ash.  I liked getting a full steps worth from my efforts.  I knew we were only about 1/3 of the way down, if that.  Only about one hour had passed since we were resting at the summit.  I noticed people that were on the trail with us, had taken a seat in the ash pulling out different clothing now to prepare for this next section.  We knew were must be coming up on the Suna-bashiri sand slide.  I was exhausted and while I had been very much looking forward to this section before we started our hike, it had killed my vigor on the way up.  We didn’t have any special gear to strap on, but we did have on our hiking pants.  We made sure they were tight around our boots to avoid rocks and ash from burying into socks.  We started down the wide trail area, it was lined with rope, and it actually looked like some hikers were using the rope to ascend on this trail… the ashy switchbacks on the paralleled ascending trail were tough enough, I couldn’t imagine using this one. Here’s what it looked like. Visibility was about 50 yards. The clouds were moving over us pretty quickly. The texture of the terrain was consistent as far as you could see. Small pea-gravel size ash and rocks on a 25 or 30 degree desolate slope. That was it. It felt like we were on another planet. It looked like it should be the moon or mars or something… It was incredible to see how dismal and deserted this part of the volcano was.

At first, I picked up one foot and tried to land in a controlled solid manner with the other, then I would pick up the next and wait to be controlled and continue along.  Stephen realized what I was doing and showed me that if you just allow yourself to slip, you will cover the ground much quicker and with far less effort.  I found that his way was awesome… it was much more fun than freaking out until I could stop myself from sliding.  The steps were so soft too, after pouncing on so many jagged rocks; this was like the cloud (sort of).  I lifted my foot, let it fall and slid my way down the trail.  It was exhilarating, I wanted to try running a bit, but I was so dizzy and exhausted I was worried that I may not be able to stop safely or dodge the big rocks at a faster speed.  Stephen ran ahead at one point and looked completely goofy!  I can’t even begin to describe it; his knees looked like they were halfway up his chest and then he’d bend his body forward a bit as he landed one foot and picked up the other. He said he felt slightly out of control but that it was so much more fun to run.  He didn’t think it was possible to take such big steps.  I could see him off in the distance; he sat down for a bit in the sand to wait for me… I sped up a bit hoping to catch up quickly so he wasn’t bored and breathing so much volcanic ash, but the dust was accumulated on my face and on my water value from my pack.  As I caught up to him, we realized how much ash we were covered in, it was unbelievable.  Add to that the sweatiness and stickiness and you can begin to imagine how we were feeling.  I was more exhausted than I thought possible, it was exhilarating to slide down the mountain, but I was ready to be done. It’d only been 45 minutes or so from where we started the slide which meant we still had a ways to go, we couldn’t even see the parking lot yet, granted we were still in a stretch of clouds, so visibility was low… but it was discouraging nevertheless. We continued drudging through the sand, at points it became shallow which was rough on the knees as it was so unexpected.  Finally we passed some areas that were familiar and then eventually (after another hour or so) we can up on the 5^th station.  We took a quick rest and bathroom break and finished the 100 meters back to the car from there. 

I couldn’t wait to take my boots off, my feet were filled with sores and blisters, but when all was said and done, we’d done it!  It took FOREVER!  I was pooped as pooped can be, I had mixed feelings about the hike up there, but regardless it was done.  Then we drove 3 hours home with a stop off at Starbucks . Ugh.

~ by Susan on August 23, 2008.