*
Fuji Sticks (excerpt)
Abigail Johnson
*
I never came down from Fuji, not really. This mountain was hell; it was heaven. My body was alive, pain coursing through every part of my body. I could hear the blood rushing in my ears over the wind, my body covered in charred earth. My hands pulsed as I clutched onto the rope: only one option, keep moving. I don’t regret it....
*
Fuji Subaru Line 5th Station, 2305m above sea level—Hour 4
Stepping off the second bus, the hair on my arms was prickling as what I had to do began to set in. The 5th station was seeped in fog, and you could scarcely see 30 feet in front of you. Around us, trail buses arrived from all directions, shuttling massive groups of climbers to the trailheads. We wove through the crowd, my avoiding the hiking poles and swinging overnight packs of the other climbers. I took a glance back at Tatum’s Camelbak Octane 22. One of those small running-vest-meets-pack situations; my lips tightened, and I reached into my otherwise empty pocket for another EVE.
On our left, there was a mountain lodge, festive warm lights glimmering behind the frosted glass windows. It was large yet cozy, and I paused to look at it, enjoying the soft heat that came from the door. Inside, tourists and locals alike huddled around the small tables, eating hot bowls of noodles with pearly white rice. Nestled beside the lodge was a small gear rental booth and a station for hikers attempting the climb.
We filed into a line of other hopefuls as the guide explained all the gear requirements for the trail in Japanese. My comprehension wasn’t perfect, but I followed along well enough. The guide looked at Tatum curiously, trying to gauge his understanding.
“I’ll explain it to him.” I nodded, taking the small leaflet from her hands. As we walked to the lodge, I started to explain what she’d said about thermal clothing (which I didn’t have), when Tatum scoffed, “Yeah, yeah—I understood what she said. I can get what people are saying from the context. It’s not that hard.” I didn’t say anything in reply—instead bending to retie my boots when he gestured at his bag, “I’ve got an extra shirt if you want to wear it. I run hot.” “Trust me, I know—” I joked, touching his arm and pretending my hand had been burned.
He didn’t laugh.
During our safety check, an English-speaking guide questioned our plan. “You will not sleep in a hut? You have no reservation?” Tatum fiddled with his backpack, “We’re doing it all at once.”
The guide looked us up and down, tracing his broad shoulders and watching as I nodded along. “It is very late. You better get started. Any longer and I can not let you go up.” I tried to reassure her with a smile. “It’s okay, we’re experienced.” She looked at my body and his once more, then took my palm and pressed a map into it. “You can turn around at the 8th station... and come back down before the summit. After the 8th station, you can not go back.”
*
Yoshida Trail, 2305m above sea level and climbing—Hour 5
Religious pilgrimages up Fuji began in the 12th century, but Fuji had been worshipped as a place of spiritual significance before the 6th century, around the time when written language was beginning to develop in Japan. Visible from then Edo, present-day Tokyo, Fuji rises above the horizon like another planet, a world inaccessible to us. The trails were originally created by monks and ascetics, traveling up the mountain as a religious act, building shrines along their journey as they mapped the paths to the sky.
In the 1600s, the Yoshida trail—the closest entrance to the mountain from Tokyo—became the base for the Kakugyō ascetic cult. Kakugyō teaches that Fuji is the symbol and savior of Japan, the nation’s spirit incarnate and powerful. Hundreds of monks and worshippers ascended the mountain, hoping its spirit would bless them with rewards and sacred knowledge, at the low price of their suffering. Fuji is a place to forget the world, a test of your bravery in hopes that the gods will recognize you.
The hike began with ascending 2,132 feet in one hour, an almost vertical jog. I didn’t speak, didn’t have the air to. I could feel that rope that tied us together aching around my ankles, weighing my steps. My breath was ice-cold, surging in and out of my lungs—burning the back of my throat as we moved, sparks crackling in my chest. I dug my fist into my abdomen as I climbed, hoping to move around whatever was cramping. [1] My limbs weren’t as long, and I didn’t have the luxury of one of the Fuji Sticks, so I climbed many of the bouldered staircases on my hands and knees. He led the first part of the hike, and I plowed forward, chasing him up the switchbacks.
During a rest, laying against a boulder, a medical team came across me panting, calling, “Are you okay?” and I replied, ashamed of my weakness, “Yes, I’m great! Today is just very hot, right?” Tatum didn’t say anything from the 20ft away where he stood, itching to continue like a mutt with fleas.
“You’re going to have to take less breaks if we’re going to make it up in time.” He said, turning back to watch as I pulled myself over a boulder. “Yeah. Got it.” I spit, refusing to be slower than him, regardless of his 5’11, 195lb build. He shrugged, “You can always go back alone if you can’t do it, and I’ll hike the summit and be back in time for dinner.”
From there, I resisted stopping unless he was the one to suggest it, or I felt like puking. I felt everything start to settle into place, and he put me in front, setting our (admittedly slower) pace ahead of him. I knew I wanted it more. I knew I was stronger than him this time. We started passing other hikers, hauling past their Montbell packs and Columbia sleeping bags. It was the same reason we’d been together for three years, both too competitive to throw in the towel first. One of us was going to win this. I liked it after awhile, the simplicity of having a single physical focus; My mind empty as I curled my knuckles around lava rock. Get up, move—that’s it, don’t think—move, you’re sinew and muscle and blood and spit. The other hikers paused to let us by as they smiled and talked to one another, balancing themselves with hiking poles.
As we climbed, he stayed right behind me, a trying-to-be-encouraging voice, saying things like “You’re my little rockstar—" Despite the relentless burning sun, I felt the nape of my neck go cold. It wouldn’t make a difference if I asked him not to do something, and I didn’t have the energy to bring up the “little” argument again. “Mhm, Thanks,” I replied, angling for a foothold on some loose rocks.
Below us, the valleys of Yamanashi Prefecture were unfolding, awash with lush greens and blues under the jagged ashen rocks. Plants blew in the wind, rolling over the lava rock as if it were a coral reef, the currents of the wind bending the grasses in their breath. I started to feel like I was floating; it was unmistakable. The awe on my face spread to the rest of my body, my palms falling open at my sides. A new world around me, the cloudless sky as empty as my stomach.
I swayed, watching the clouds float over knife-sharp boulders below us.
A few minutes later, he caught up to me, nudging me to drink water. I paused to have a sip or two when he told me to, not wanting to fill my bladder and then have to stop for a break. [2] As I took the straw, he sighed, kicking some gravel away. “Why are you always mean to me?” He pouted, sticking out his lower lip. I turned to look over at him, my face screwed up in the direct sunlight.
“I’m just tired. I mean—you’ve refused to even hold my hand since you got to the airport,” I said casually to his back, sucking on the straw attached to his hiking bag.
“It’s PDA! I’m not trying to break the etiquette rules here!”
I sighed, “Yeah, because you’re so obviously Japanese. Besides, the “rules” are a little different than you think they are.”
“I did research!”
I took a final sip, tossing a few of my prescription pain pills into my mouth before handing the straw back to him to drink.
“What are those?” He raised an eyebrow, watching me swallow.
I shrugged, looking up at the path, an endless zigzag, almost unnerving in its perfect symmetry.
“Let’s get going.”
The people who came here first, Buddhist and Shinto alike, did it in an attempt to shed the endless cycle of desire and suffering, birth and death, of being human. Kaji Kito is a concept followed by the ancient climbers, the idea of prayer requiring more than verbal communication with a deity. In order for Fuji to hear you, you must sacrifice yourself to it, and enter its realm.
*
Hinode-kan, 2,700m above sea level—Hour 6
Once we made it through the first third of the journey, the mountain huts started to appear. They were small, cozy Japanese-style houses with tatami flooring and large cast-iron pots heated in the center of the room. The mountain huts were staffed during the climbing season, and some served food, usually instant ramen. As we got higher, the huts began to sell bottles of portable oxygen with masks attached. I took a sideways glance at the canisters and put 100 yen on the counter for an orange juice. The staff were all fit, carrying radios and wearing thermal clothing. There didn’t seem to be any way to get up or down this mountain other than to walk, so I figured they must be pretty capable. [3]
As we climbed, it became a habit for me to rush ahead to the next hut, quickly pay for the stamps, and use the branding time as a chance to sit on the ground outside without admitting to taking a break. [4] I sat with my back pressed against the wall, elbows on my spread knees, head lulled down. Steam rose from my arms, visible when Tatum tapped my shoulder with the Fuji stick. “Time to get moving.”
Each step I took on the stairs was in a careful pattern of 1, 1, 2. On 1, I took two short breaths, pulling the air in my lungs quickly, watching the brambles in the wind around me.
On 2, I exhaled slowly, as long as I could, taking a step forward and digging my heel into the rubble. Focusing on the pattern tunneled my vision; nothing between me and endless gray-blue sky. I imagined ropes tied on hipbones… pulling me forward so hard it hurt to hesitate.
*
On the stairs, approx. 2,900m from sea level and climbing. Hour 8
I looked over my shoulder, pulling myself over a staircase on my knees. “How long do you think it would take for you to hit the ground if I pushed you?” He laughed up at me. “Yeah, you couldn’t move me if you tried. You’re not strong enough.”
“I’m strong enough—” I said, my voice cracking through my dry mouth. My mind wandered as I looked over the mountainside, fog rolling over us like waves in the open sea. I stood, turning away from him and looking up. Stairs and paths of loose gravel went up endlessly, the summit still hidden behind another cloud layer. I wondered what I’d feel like, up there, passing through the gates to the sky.
My mind wandered again as we continued walking; I imagined what it would be like if he said something nice. I remembered my mom’s grimace when I told her we’d gotten back together. I wondered if he'd do what he did again someday. I thought about the people who had taken the same steps hundreds of years before, their sweat cold on their backs, goal in their minds. No matter how much I thought, I couldn’t find an answer I liked; and yet, here we were. Alone in the roof of the world, and still climbing.
I looked back at him, and my face softened, a heavy, endless feeling beginning to set in as I watched him walk, face lit by the stray flicker of sunlight through the clouds. I could sense the end coming like the rope slowly being sawed at... threads fraying and splitting off in every direction. “You know,” I said, leaning up against him as we paused to catch our breath. “I wouldn’t have done this with anyone else.” He nodded, “This is going to be such a badass story to tell, we’re gonna be like the cool aunt and uncle.” I looked out at the clouds and felt a wave of guilt sinking onto my shoulders.
We couldn’t see the base of the mountain anymore, only the trail, snakelike and curling up the volcano. The path was becoming more barren with every step, the other hikers beginning to fade into the clouds behind us. I looked down at my hands, already gnarled and coated in black rock powder from the volcanic stones. Nothing was bleeding too badly yet, so I dusted my hands off on the handkerchief. My body still felt pretty solid. [5]
*
8th Station, approx. 3,100m from sea level. Hour 11
The last turning point. The 8th station was larger and busier than the other huts, full of people checking into the overnight lodging. The narrow path between the cliff and hut was crowded with people sitting and changing out of their hiking shoes to go outside. [6] Tatum paused, turning on his heel to peer into the lodging as I headed towards the shop counter for the sticks. “Do you want to turn around?” He asked, pointing a thumb towards the trail signs. I shook my head. “We’re already up here. What’s a little more?” He groaned in reply, “I’m hurting—let’s take a break and eat—” I looked around at the other climbers enjoying warm food. “Yeah, sure.”
Around us, the other hikers were a mixed bag. A handful of Europeans in sleek jackets and crew socks, outfits coordinating. Across from where I sat in the gravel, a local trail guide explained the lodge’s amenities to a group of young Japanese men. After a minute, I went inside and purchased two hot bowls of instant ramen, with a muffin for each of us. They poured the boiling water inside and provided chopsticks, which we carried back outside to our dirt dinner table.
“Do you want to know how long we’ve been—” Tatum asked, noodles in his mouth.
“No, don’t tell me or I’ll get tired,” I replied, slurping my udon. Since we’d gotten off the first bus from Tokyo, I hadn’t checked the time or counted the hours—knowing I could get farther without keeping track. I felt my stomach ache and bubble as the broth slid past my dry mouth. I picked at the noodles a little more, breaking off pieces of the muffin as Tatum wolfed down his bowl. “Are you gonna finish that?” He asked once he was done, nudging my styrofoam udon cup. “No,” I replied, handing him the rest, still picking at my muffin.
I felt my throat begin to open up after eating, a sharpness returning to me as I began to wake up and realize how cold I’d been. Once he finished my bowl, I gestured toward his backpack. “Can I have the shirt?” He tossed it to me, and I pulled it over my head. Just a long-sleeve shirt, but better than nothing. I looked up at the sky over 8th station, hazy and beginning to clear as we rose above the clouds. During my only treasured rest, about 35 minutes or so, I listened to the warm tones of the language I’d come to love, long after the sun had hit its peak in the sky.
*
Former 8th Station, Tomoe-Kan approx. 3,400m from sea level. Hour 13
The air was getting thinner, and I was getting higher, shifting my weight from one leg to another, jumping from side to side. We had been moving steadily, visibility getting worse, drowning in fog. If I got too far ahead, Tatum vanished into the gray, so I paused every few boulders to wait for him. Unable to stand still, I shook my hands wildly, blood and dirt flying off them in little flecks; My legs started to numb as I kicked at the ground like a tied horse.
In 1580, a follower of the Kakugyo fuji-worship cult recounts his experience meeting the godly incarnation of the mountain after fasting and hiking to the summit. As he ascended, his notes became more disorganized, the spelling and meaning of certain words unclear. As he continues, his visions become more complex and visceral. He writes,
[ Day 1 ] “Funatsu [=Saido or Kawaguchi]. One hundred days' great practice. Received
Utterance(s) of Water.”
[ Day 8 ] “Hakone. Did one hundred days' great practice. Met Sengen Dainichi Bosatsu face to face. During one thousand days' great practice in Hitoana, received [?]. During great practice, wrote one thousand scrolls of KOKU-DAI-SOKU-MYO-ō-SOKU-TAI-JIP- PО-KО-KU-SHIN 22 and saved eighty thousand people. Also, during forty-nine days' great practice on Mid-Path, met
Sengen face to face; utterances and dispensations to save eighty thousand sentient beings.”
“How much longer?” I asked, before pausing. “Wait—no, don’t tell me.”
He said something in response, but I couldn’t hear it—my ears ringing, drowning out his voice. I rolled my head on my neck, pushing down on my aching temples. I rolled my jaw, trying to clear the sinus pressure, when I was able to pick up on his voice again. “...You okay?”
“Are you?” I asked, knocking a fist to the side of my jaw, still trying to relieve the pressure, when I noticed something out of the corner of my eye. “Did you see that?” I jerked my head slightly, training my eyes on the boulder where I’d seen motion.
“No—” He replied, passing by me on the stairs. I looked back into the fog, trying to pinpoint what I’d seen. When I stopped moving, my leg started to shake wildly, jerking and joints clicking as I tried to balance. There was still a soft fizzling in my ear, but I was able to hear better now.
The former 8th station was a pile of wood and brick, nearly sliding off the vertical slope. As we passed by, abandoned flags fluttered in the wind—still tied to bent posts. My throat felt dry as I looked past the rubble, trying to see if there was someone else up here with us.
*
The Summit, approx. 3776m from sea level (11,000ft) Hour 15
Cold was beginning to sink in, my climbing starting to slow for the first time in hours.
Regardless of my body, my eyes were rapidly searching for movement. There were no humans in my sightline anymore, Tatum coming up quietly several meters behind me. The familiar talk of the other hikers gone miles ago, the crunch of the gravel now drowned out by the wind. I held the sides of my face, pulling the sleeves of Tatum’s shirt over my knuckles. At some point, I’d tied a wooden Fuji talisman to my jacket, and it rose on the wind, jumping and whirling in the air by my shoulder.
My head was throbbing with pressure, my hair flying into my face in the wind. I knocked my braids out of the way when I saw it. A massive wooden torii gate, gray with age, standing alone in the wind. My legs faltered, and I pressed my palm against the wood, tracing the yen coins people had pressed into the splintering cracks. At the summit, we noticed another hiker who must’ve made it up a while before. I recognized him from the parking lot that now felt centuries away from here. Tatum bumped my arm, and I nodded, taking my phone out of my pocket and asking if he’d take a photo of the two of us at the summit.
We stood next to a large stone obelisk, inscribed with the words “Mount Fuji Summit Asama Taisha Inner Sanctuary.” We each held one of the fuji sticks and smiled, holding onto the stone, our hands not touching. Afterward, the other hiker vanished into the fog, leaving us in the sky. I tried to bend down and sit in the gravel, my legs wavering underneath me. Tatum sat too for a while, and I leaned against his knee the way I always did. Alone now, he rubbed my shoulder roughly and said something about being proud of me. We were silent in the cold when I closed my heavy eyes, and when I opened them, Tatum was gone. The tattered Fuji flags were changing colors and pulsing like a cuttlefish in my cloudy vision, and I rubbed my eyes. This time, I heard a new voice behind me.
You’ve come a long way…again. The voice said, familiar, the one from my recurring dreams. [7] The pressure in my head focused behind my eyes as my ears fizzled and popped, my scalp soaked with icy sweat. Oh, it’s you. I thought, relieved—my breath starting to settle. I could only see him out of the corner of my eye, brushing dark feathers off his arms, his silhouette fluttering in the wind like one of the flags, the same shape I’d seen behind the boulders earlier. The dream seemed to bubble up in my consciousness every few months, but it had been a long time since I’d seen him. Are you able to stand? He asked. Yeah. But it doesn’t feel great. I thought. I felt stronger, older somehow when I was around him. You’re smarter than this. Your life won’t last forever. He said. I know. I just don’t want to be alone. I thought. I couldn’t tell if I was lying down or sitting, but felt comfortable for the first time in hours, unable to feel the pain.
You’re not. He said. You don’t count. I thought. He uncrossed his arms, crouching silently beside me, looking straight ahead at the shimmering clouds. Hm, he seems to count me. I laughed, remembering the many fights Tatum and I had over the dreams. I’d written an essay about it: the story of living and dying in 30 years on rice paddies. I’d had a son with a sort-of man from the mountain. Tatum always brought it up in arguments after that, my ‘disrespectful’ behavior.
Others might question his ownership if I wrote stories, right?
He placed a hand on my shoulder and I put my torn up palm over his, still looking out at the sky. I couldn’t feel my hand, the blood or bits of sunburn, callouses carved away and remade from raw flesh. Do you think I’ll make it down? I thought, looking down over the fog, loose lava rock marking my path home. He went quiet for a moment before speaking again. …You can’t stay here with me this time. There’s only one thing you can do now. He said. I know, I exhaled. He pulled back, taking a phantom step in the gravel behind me, feather-soft. He took a deep breath, watching the sun as it slowly lowered over the horizon like a guillotine. How many more times do I have to save you? He asked. One more, and another, and another, and another—I thought, a smile widening on my face. He knelt, putting a hand on my back, spread palm over my spine—and I felt the ropes sever. I felt myself grit my teeth, wincing as I slid backward onto the boulder behind me.
All I could see was the gray veil of clouds above; my heart suddenly began revving back up like an engine as the grip returned to my fingers, breath hot and surging. feeling a small trickle of clarity running down my sweat-slicked face, mixed with the salty taste of guilt. Something was wrong with this. Something more than the annoyance. I traced the line from my severed ropes that’d been attached to every bruise, headache, nightmare, sickness, and compulsion, and there was one knot connecting them all, Tatum jangling it like spare keys. I thought about the first time I’d held my younger sister, her newborn body soft and powdery. [9] My hands were small then, too, the weight of a universe was placed on my shoulders that day, one I gladly carried. I needed to get back. Away from home, I’d let myself slip, but I needed to be strong now. He was gone when I opened my eyes.
Tatum shouted from across the clearing, “Hey—ready to go?” He walked over, zipping up his hiking pants. “I heard you laughing. Something up?” I shook my head, holding the feeling tight in my chest. With the new strength in my legs, I stood slowly, clacking my fists together.
“Let’s catch the last train.”
“What!? Isn’t the last one at midnight, that’s gonna be tight—”
“If we’re fast enough, we’ll make it.” I stretched my arms, crossing them over my chest and reaching to touch my toes.
“We can get an Uber instead of the train—”
“I know I can make it; what about you?” I said, teeth clicking and gnashing as I spoke. I started to strip off the extra layers of clothing, balling them up and putting them in Tatum’s pack.
“Well.. I’m just concerned about you…”
I laughed, the sound ringing in the empty shacks, breath strong as the wind now, my shoulders in line with the burning horizon. A fire rose from my feet, and I raised my arm, pointing towards the path. I breathed in cool air, the smell of home, my home filling my lungs.
“I’ve got things to do! Can’t wait around up here forever.” [8]
*
NOTES
[1] What hurt the most was the embarrassment of it, what I thought was my weakness puffing hot air up my throat.
[2] Apparently, all of these things go hand in hand. Dehydration is known to worsen the symptoms of AMS, increasing physiological stress through loss of blood volume, and hindering kidney and respiratory responses required for the high-altitude acclimitization. The EVEs might have been my savior in that department, ibuprofen known to increase fluid retention.
[3] It takes about 3 to 5 days of rest at a specific elevation to complete an acclimation phase and clear symptoms of Acute Mountain Sickness (AMS). Preventative tolerance would require 200 hours of pre-acclimitization in a simulated hypoxic environment. The workers likely attempted the hike over a day or two, spending some time sleeping and resting in order to adjust to the harsh environment.
[4] I wish I’d fought more to keep one of the Fuji sticks. By about halfway up the mountain, they looked incredible, and I liked trying to decipher the kanji on each stamp. They sit in a jar at Tatum’s apartment now.
[5] Since Fuji, my hands seem to be perpetually wounded, bleeding from the nailbeds, absentmindedly picked at or torn open easily, now sensitive to heat and the sun after the burns I’d sustained.
[6] I knew the Fuji mountain huts included warm showers and sleeping bunks for hikers, as well as meals: costing between ¥9,000 and ¥18,000 per person ($60 to $120 USD), depending on how high up they are on the trail. The Fuji-san hotel is the last place you can stay overnight, and is about 300m directly up from 8th station. I felt tempted, but not enough to come off as desiring rest.
[7] Gods are said to present themselves in forms we recognize.
[8] I knew then, I’d be the first one to throw in the towel after all. I knew I’d be proving him right, that it hadn’t been sincere when I said “I love you”, no matter how hard I tried to make it true, no matter how true it used to be. I knew then that he’d never understand how afraid I was of him, and that I’d tried my best. I knew then that he’d blame me and I’d have to keep climbing anyway.
[9] We chose the most difficult, and fastest trail down Fuji, diverting from our original plan. Running, sliding and crashing down the mountainside, we arrived at the foot of the mountain after dark in a densely wooded forest. Headlamp on, I found a still-open visitors center in an otherwise empty parking lot at the edge of the wood. We’d landed in a completely different prefecture on the other side of Fuji. With no service, the kind workers arranged a taxi with a Chinese father and son who’d also taken a different path and had been waiting for hours. I translated the father’s English to the Japanese taxi driver, while the little boy and Tatum slept leaning on me. Tatum slept in every train and taxi in the four hours it took us to get back to Tokyo, stumbling along half-awake. I urged him on, taking the stairs instead of the escalator to the train platform. We caught the last Yamanote line train at midnight.
